Three For The Girl
by Valravn
Summary: Non-Con, torture. CI5 is spread to breaking point nationally as Cowley investigates a circle of corrupt politicians and their procurer. Bodie and Doyle's cover is broken, and Maggie is sent to find them.  But it starts to go horribly wrong.


_The first time Macklin pinned Maggie to the floor, she had been 15 years old. Her body had stiffened beneath him, taut as a bow string. She had stared, her eyes wild and unseeing, as she screamed uncontrollably, over and over again, the piercing air-raid siren sound of sheer terror. He had held her down firmly, repeating her name in his strong, calm voice. Not shouting at her. Not slapping her out of her hysteria. Just giving her the time she needed to remember who he was and where she was. When she finally stopped, and he saw the shame start in her eyes and the embarrassment start to colour her cheeks, he spoke quickly._

"_It's only a problem if you let it be," he had said in the clipped, professional tones he would have used whether teaching her to drive, or telling her to do her homework. Deep down, he knew that if she didn't deal with this now, she never would. The terror on her face had made him want to release her immediately, but that would not help her. She had to face her demons._

_The second time he pinned her, she had managed to control her screams, but her body still froze beneath him, and fear still filled the dark blue eyes. _

_The pattern emerged – if she knew he was going to pin her, she could control her screaming, if nothing else. If he caught her unawares, her fear took control._

_The first change was when she started to fight beneath him, her struggles uncoordinated and futile. But she had begun fighting back._

_It had to be an improvement._

_After nearly a year, he could pin her to the mat and hold her down while she made a concerted effort to remove him. _

_When she had learned to control her instincts, when he had managed to exorcise her rape demons and allow her to think of being pinned to the ground as just another position from which to escape, then he taught her how to throw him off, how to use her agility to defeat his power and size. When her self-control became instinct and she had lost the wild-eyed terror that still lurked in the back of her eyes – then he taught her the killing moves that would mean she would be able to defend herself properly._

_One evening, after making her go through move after move for hours, and she had made him go over anything she felt had not worked perfectly, he pulled her to her feet by her hand, his other hand gripping her arm, holding her steady. He did not release her as she expected him to. She looked up at him, this kind of contact not being the usual kind they shared._

"_You couldn't have stopped them, Maggie."_

_She blinked rapidly in surprise._

"_Four men against one," he continued. "Even if you'd been an adult – even if you'd been as well trained as I can make you – you couldn't have stopped them."_

"_They'd never pin you down," she replied, with the confidence of youth._

_He shook his head. "Even me. You'll learn how to get out of trouble, Maggie. I'll teach you. But the real skill is never being in that position in the first place."_

"_So what you're saying is it could happen again?" Her voice was strangely calm and he saw the level of self-control that calmness required._

"_No-one can guarantee you'll never be raped or knifed again." He avoided euphemisms, or any kind of soft words to describe what had happened to her. "You have to learn that what someone does to you does not change you. Unless you let it. Unless you allow them to have that power over you. In here." He tapped her forehead gently with a callused forefinger. "Never let them in here, Maggie," he said softly. She had to learn to accept it and move on. _

_His manner was cold and detached. Anyone else would have held her, reassured her while she screamed. Instead, he gave her the tools to fight back._

_It was tough love. But it was love._

_# # # # # # # _

_When Brian Macklin was a child – and he had been, despite what the agents he trained might think – he had delighted in reading Arthurian Romances and tales of chivalry – gallant knights, brave warriors, and beautiful damsels in distress. The colour and passion had been so different to his seemingly cold and indifferent parents. The tragic love of Tristan and Isolde seemed a universe away from dry kisses on soft cheeks on rare special occasions._

_As he had grown older, wiser, and more observant, however, he noticed how his mother's wrinkles seemed to fade whenever his father walked into the room, and how the old Colonel's gaze always followed her around when she was in sight. If he'd needed further evidence, there was the way the light went out in the old man's eyes the moment he'd been told he was now a widower, and how the tall, proud man faded into nothing, following his beloved wife to the grave a mere eight months later. Any doubt disappeared when he found the letters they had exchanged, throughout their courtship and on into their married years – one or two a week, left on bedroom pillows, and filled with such tenderness and desire it amazed him. They bore silent witness to a passion that was just as romantic as anything Chretien or Malory had written about._

_The romantic ideal of courtly love had stayed with him even when he discovered that love could be physical as well as emotional. The pleasures of the flesh left him wondering if any man could possibly endure living without it, however pure such love might be. Cyrano de Bergerac may have loved his Roxanne, but the young Brian Macklin had wondered whether he wouldn't have been wiser to find love elsewhere. The concept of loving not wisely but too well seemed nonsensical._

_But the ideal persisted. The notion that a man could love a woman, not for what she could give him, or what she could do to him, but simply for the pleasure of watching her, day by day, and never touching her. When separation caused some kind of madness that could only be cured by her presence; where a silken scarf was worth more than rubies or diamonds. That, he thought, was the purest love of all. The love his parents had shared. To love someone completely, without barrier, without wanting anything in return._

_That, he knew, was the love of which the poets sang. That rare treasure that might only come round once a lifetime, or not at all._

_He'd never believed he would find that for himself, he wasn't even sure it existed. It was rare, elusive._

_And then Maggie Draven had arrived in Hong Kong._

_He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't loved her. He had told himself repeatedly that she was a child; but when 14 turned to 17, it became harder to think of those nine years seniority he had over her as any kind of barrier._

_He loved her, he knew it. He knew he always would. But that didn't mean he had to act upon it. To do that would have betrayed the trust Cowley had put in him, and exploited what he knew to be Maggie's one remaining weakness – the need for acceptance._

_So he stayed silent, hid his emotions even though it felt like glass shards of silver piercing his heart. Even when the stories he heard about her made him want to hunt her down and pin her to the mat again, screaming if necessary, to try to find the woman he had lost._

_When she had returned, the delight at seeing her again was matched by the torment of unrequited love. Macklin was a man who knew his own strengths and weaknesses; he did not shy from the truth. And he knew he would gladly bear the torture of having her near than being parted from her again. This was his courtly love, the devotion of a knight for his untouchable, unattainable lady. Even seeing her with Doyle was a fair price to pay for the pleasure of seeing her, day after day. Of knowing she was safe._

_She tried to convince him she loved him, and he knew from the softening in her hard gaze when she looked at him, and the way she gladly surrendered to his need even as she devoured and burned him with her own passion, that she did truly love him. But he still couldn't remove the shadow that fell over his soul and chilled him to the marrow when he saw Doyle's name scheduled on the training roster for the forthcoming week. Bodie and Doyle, just the two of them, for a special assignment known only to Cowley._

_Macklin knew his demons, knew what caused him to wake, sweating with fear in the dead of the night. He had taught Maggie to face her demons, so that even if she could not defeat them, she could fight them. He expected no less from himself. All he could do was hope, but hope was all he'd ever had. He was good at hoping._

_And whatever happened, he had had these few precious months. That was more than he'd ever thought possible before._

_The problem was, now he had Maggie, Macklin was certain he couldn't let her go again._

He watched them fighting now, although no-one watching would have spotted the fear coiling in his gut. Not even his hands betrayed the turmoil inside. When Doyle reached around her, brushing a hand against her breast, no-one watching Macklin would have sensed the tension within him.

Instead, he only stepped forward to correct Doyle when she swept his legs from underneath him, leaving the agent sprawling on the floor.

"Wrong, Doyle," he snapped, watching the man sit up, forearms resting on his knees as he caught his breath. "Don't pull your punches just because she's a woman."

"Oh, you had noticed that small fact, had you?" Bodie commented from the sidelines, nursing ribs sore from the pounding Macklin had delivered before stopping to observe Doyle and Maggie.

Macklin did not rise to the sarcasm, watching as Maggie offered Doyle her hand to help him to his feet. Steel blue eyes flickered at the slight hesitation before she released him.

"Again." He stepped back, allowing Doyle to dart forward and reach out to catch her head, spinning her around, catching her one arm and swinging her to the mat smoothly. He ducked to deliver the coup de grace, but long legs reached up, ankles locking around his neck, and he was flipped neatly to the ground alongside her.

He looked across at her, a rakish smile splitting his face, causing his chipped tooth to glint in the strip lights.

"We meet again."

"Anyone would think you liked dominant women, 4-5," she teased, her lips twitching into a smile.

"Oh, you know how it is. I know my place," he said, a suggestive note in his voice.

She narrowed her eyes, smiling despite the stern look she attempted. She rolled up on her shoulders before flipping herself back to her feet smoothly.

Doyle scrambled to his feet less elegantly, but without her assistance. He gave her backside a resounding slap as he walked past her, looking up to catch a twitch in Macklin's jaw and a marked Arctic look that made his normally cold expression look positively tropical. Doyle blinked, and Macklin had lost the look, making him wonder if he had imagined it after all.

"You have to be ready for anything, Doyle," Macklin said, his clipped, precise voice giving nothing away. "You can't hesitate just because it might be a pretty face you have to punch."

Doyle looked at Maggie, his hands on his hips as he jerked his head in Macklin's direction. "He thinks you've got a pretty face," he said with a smile, wondering if he could bring that strange expression to Macklin's face again. Macklin remained impassive.

She gave a predatory smile. "He's got taste."

"Bodie." Macklin ignored the banter, ordering the other man forward with a nod.

Maggie stepped around them, arms folded. She flicked one leg behind her as she walked past Macklin, kicking him in the backside on her way past. He jumped in surprise, leaving his expression unguarded for a split second, a slight smile lifting the corner of his mouth, before his usual mask reasserted itself.

Maggie slipped into assassin mode as she approached Bodie, who watched her with wariness behind his customary smirk.

Macklin watched the swing and kick, dodge and dive, no sign of concern on his impassive, ruggedly handsome face. Maggie could look after herself, he knew that.

Bodie caught her off balance, catching one leg and swiping her away. He landed on top of her before she could retaliate, and pinned her down. She stopped struggling, and Macklin could see her mind working through the options, knowing her only way out was to cause damage. And while they worked the agents hard, they never actually tried to kill them.

But it would be different on the streets. And they had to be prepared for that as well. Maggie suddenly reared up beneath Bodie, making for his nose or anywhere she could use to reassert herself. To Bodie's credit, he anticipated her moves, leaving her breathless and immobile beneath him.

"Truce?" he said.

"Bastard," she hissed, but there was no heat in her words. "You never even bought me dinner and roses."

Bodie laughed, but did not release her until Macklin issued the terse command to get up. In this place, there were no rules, and Macklin was as good as God.

Bodie got to his feet smoothly and reached down to pull her to her feet. A towel hit him squarely in the back, thrown by Macklin.

"That's it for both of you," Macklin said, the closest thing to congratulations in his voice. "I don't want to see either of you til 0600."

"Yeah, well, we don't want to see any of you either," Bodie replied. "No more middle of the night assaults. Goldilocks here needs his beauty sleep."

"Speak for yourself, mate," Doyle retaliated. He gave Maggie a slow, teasing look. "Unless you fancy tucking me up for the night," he said with a leer.

Maggie threw his towel at him and he allowed it to hit him squarely in the face. "Don't let your mouth make promises your body can't keep, Doyle," she said with a smile.

The two agents picked up their towels and left, only limping slightly from their exertions.

Macklin felt long legs snake around his, threatening to topple him to the floor. He controlled the fall, turning it into a roll that brought him smoothly to a crouch, ready for her next attack. Her eyes gleamed and a predatory smile tugged at her lips. He caught her as she lunged, bringing her body to the ground beside him smoothly, covering her with his own. Her legs snaked around his waist, and she twisted her hips, using his own momentum to swing him around and beneath her. She loomed over him, raven black tendrils of hair escaping from her pony tail and sticking to her sweat-slicked skin. She glowed from her exertions, and something else. Macklin's concern was what had brought on her surge of desire. And who.

She ducked down and kissed him hard. "You're an idiot, Brian Macklin. Did you know that?" Her violet eyes sparkled with laughter and desire.

"Enlighten me," he teased, his face creasing into a smile that lifted the tight lines and made him truly handsome.

She dropped her head and dragged her tongue slowly up his neck, making him groan at the contact, his groin instantly hot and hard for her.

Her lips brushed, silken and demanding, against the strong pulse of his throat. She reached between them with one hand to wrench his t-shirt free before allowing her hand to snake across his bare stomach with feather-light touches.

He groaned again, reaching up to catch her head in both hands, working her hair free from the pony tail and feeling it cascade around their faces in a sweet scented, damp curtain. He buried his hands in her hair, pulling her head closer for a deep kiss, revelling, now as always, in the warm welcoming velvet of her mouth.

She pulled away to look down at him, both of them hidden from the rest of the world by her hair. "All week, you've been expecting me to sneak off to Doyle, or jump him. Or him to jump me."

He wanted to deny it, but he couldn't lie, not to her. "Not expecting it," he said hesitantly.

"Well, you've wondered about it."

"Yes," he admitted, lost in the violet blue of her eyes. "It's been tearing me up inside."

She smiled tenderly, leaning down to brush his lips in a soft, chaste kiss. "Idiot," she breathed fondly. "I love you, don't I?"

He raised his head to kiss her again. While they were at work, it was pure business. When they were alone, he could never stop touching her, as though reassuring himself she was really there. She never made fun of his insecurity. If she felt he hadn't touched her recently enough, she would demand attention as though it were hers by right. Which it was. Everything he had, everything he could give, was hers to command.

He just couldn't get used to the idea that it worked both way. "Do you?" he asked softly, needing the confirmation. It wasn't often he asked her to say it; wasn't often he felt the need to hear it. But now, after this week – after his fears had been eating away at him – he needed the reassurance.

She kissed him again. "Magpies mate for life, don't they?" she said with a smile.

# # # # # # #

Six weeks undercover; six weeks working apart, before Bodie laid eyes on Doyle again. He'd been marked as a getaway driver, good with wheels, and had kicked his heels ferrying one underworld boss after another around Manchester, London, Bristol, Glasgow – anywhere he was ordered.

Doyle was masquerading as a locksmith, earning his reputation on various briefcases and supposedly secure strong boxes provided by the sources Cowley was keen to track down.

Blackmail was nasty business, sordid by its very nature. Unpleasant. And an MP's indiscretion could escalate into National Security unless a tight lid was kept on them.

Cowley was keen to stem those leaks.

Business deals had been made, agreements signed, all for the sake of pictures of girls, boys, drugs – whatever it took. Looking through a handful of MoD accounts and forecasts, Cowley had immediately been struck by the potential for double entries and false accounting, the same article being billed twice under different tags.

He would make sure it stopped.

And so Bodie and Doyle found themselves at opposite ends of the operation, waiting to meet in the middle.

Bodie had progressed from chauffeuring underworld types to dealing with their targets, thanks in no small part to his assumed background in dealing with African tin-pot dictators. From then on, it was only a matter of time before he was given instructions to deliver a locked briefcase to Doyle while the Minister to whom the briefcase was meant to be attached enjoyed a dubious afternoon's entertainment courtesy of a seedy looking Soho flat.

Slanted green eyes stared at him through the crack in the door before Doyle slid the chain off and stood, framed in the doorway, in the same pose Bodie had seen adopted by the Minister's companion for the afternoon.

Ray Doyle – open for business.

"Package to deliver," Bodie drawled lazily, no sign of recognition on his face

"Yeah? Do I have to sign for it?" Doyle affected a slightly defensive tone.

Bodie gave a wry smile. "Depends if you can write, sunshine."

He handed the briefcase over. Doyle took it and gave the lock a cursory glance,

"One hour," he said at last.

"What? No cup of tea while I wait?"

"An hour," Doyle repeated, closing the door on him.

Bodie sighed and turned back to the car. "An hour," he muttered under his breath.

Across the street, a figure lurked in the shadows, unseen.

# # # # # # #

Two hours later, Bodie waited to pick the Minister up from his afternoon of frolics. A rap on the driver's window alerted him to the hulking presence of Jefferson, one of the muscle bound man-mountains employed by the unknown head of the blackmail ring.

"Boss wants to see you," Jefferson said in his strangely high pitched voice.

Bodie nodded towards the door to the flat. "What about him?"

"Don't worry about him. Andy will take care of it." The slightly built Andy was dwarfed by the mammoth Jefferson, but he ducked around the man to nod a greeting to Bodie.

Bodie didn't like it.

"Okay," he agreed, masking his concern. He got out of the car, allowing Andy to slink into the driver's seat. He passed the keys to the man. "Home, James. And don't spare the horses," he said in an affected Sloane Ranger accent.

The drive back to the mansion on the outskirts of Windsor was undertaken in silence. With only Jefferson for company, Bodie knew that conversation would be impossible. He didn't think Jefferson would be capable of driving and talking at the same time.

The silence gave him time to think about this unusual break in routine. He had no real option but to play along. No point in blowing his cover unnecessarily.

His instinct for danger nagged at him as they got nearer the mansion. Once there, he was ushered without comment into a darkened room, his senses alert for any hint of attack.

The light, when turned on, was blinding. Squinting against the glare, he saw the main gangland boss – the lynch-pin Cowley was so anxious to break – sat in a leather chair. Beside him, strapped to a chair, blood oozing from a cut above one green eye and a scarf tied tightly over his mouth, Doyle sagged, barely conscious.

Bodie reacted, his Macklin-honed instincts reaching for a weapon and making for the nearest cover, his first priority to secure his partner.

He never completed the move.

He felt a sharp bite, like the angry sting of a wasp, against his neck, and turned to see the small, Oriental woman lower a blow-pipe. Then the room swam into blackness and Bodie knew no more.

# # # # # # #

Maggie giggled, reaching out to dab melted chocolate on Macklin's nose, before sucking the remaining mixture from her fingers, her cheeks hollowing, her eyes dancing with laughter.

"Why – you minx," Macklin snapped in mock anger, reaching to wrap her in his arms and demand retribution. She dodged away from him, dancing like quicksilver out of his reach. She feinted left and he pretended to fall for it, changing direction at the last second to grab her, wrapping his arms around her slender waist. Her giggling increased as he deliberately wiped his nose across her cheek, leaving chocolate smeared in his wake.

"Urgh!" She feigned disgust, pushing against his chest, leaving flour and chocolate hand-prints on his t-shirt. "You're disgusting!" she complained, although there was no real complaint in her voice.

"Urchin," he scolded with a laugh, pulling her back into his embrace and reaching to lick the chocolate from her face. Her pretence of disgust turned into genuine pleasure when his tongue continued across her jaw to delve into the curve of her neck and ear. She felt his growing hardness against her stomach, and an answering heat coiled in her groin.

The doorbell was an unwanted interruption. She pushed him away with a sigh of real complaint.

"Hold that thought," she said, looking up into steel-blue eyes turned dark with desire.

She wriggled free from his embrace unwillingly and left the kitchen.

They had six weeks leave due to them, and they had driven all night as soon as it started to her house in the Lake District. Few people knew they were here; few people would have intruded on their peace and privacy.

So when Maggie saw the unfamiliar silhouette of a woman at the door, she was not feeling particularly gracious.

She opened the front door with a bright smile, intending to over-compensate for the resentment she felt at the intrusion.

The woman at the door immediately made Maggie acutely aware of her chocolate and flour stained jeans and vest, and the careless mess of her hair, tied haphazardly out of her way. She felt chocolate drying to a sticky residue on her cheek.

"Can I help you?" she asked, drawing her shreds of dignity together as best she could.

The woman was tall and elegant, blonde hair immaculate in a smooth pleat, make-up flawless in the early afternoon sun. She wore a tailored suit of rose-petal pink that flared slightly over the beginning of a bulge of pregnancy. Pale blue eyes observed her, a slight tinge of amusement in them, as though watching an unruly child at play.

"I was told Brian Macklin would be here," she said, her cultured voice as smooth as her perfectly groomed hair. Magpie felt like a crow amongst doves.

"He is," she replied, maintaining her smile, none of her embarrassment evident in her expression. "Whom shall I say is calling?"

The blonde woman gave a smile, her eyes warming when she heard she had found Macklin.

"I'm his wife," she said calmly.

Maggie felt her heart plummet, felt certain her knees must give way under the sudden shift in weight. A cold pit opened up inside her as she catalogued again the differences between herself and the vision of Finishing School perfection that stood before her.

Her smile remained fixed in place, despite the chill spreading through her veins. "Of course," she said, with a brightness she did not feel. "Come in." She stepped aside to let the woman enter her home – their home.

She knew with a sudden certainty that she couldn't bear to see the two of them together, to see the perfect blond, upper-class – and pregnant - couple reunited. She gestured to the other end of the house. "He's just through there, in the kitchen."

"The kitchen?" The woman gave a conspiratorial smile, and Maggie wondered briefly how many of Macklin's mistresses his wife had allowed into the apparently not-so-exclusive club of Macklin's women. "You are brave. He couldn't boil an egg."

Maggie resented the implication of co-conspiracy or complicity against the man, but her smile never faltered. Acting on blind instinct, she reached for a set of car keys sitting in the glass bowl on the hall table.

"I'm sorry, I was just on my way out," she lied smoothing, sweeping up her wallet from the drawer of the table. "I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you" she said, the warmth of her voice sounding bizarre to her ears. Her breathing hammered in her throat, her heart threatening to choke her.

She opened the front door, needing to escape as quickly as possible, but the sudden gasp behind her froze her in place in the doorway.

"Eloise?"

She heard the catch in Macklin's voice, and it broke her heart.

"I won't be long," she lied, not turning to look at him or the woman who was his wife, who had destroyed everything she had. She closed the door behind her and walked to the garage, feeling oddly proud that she didn't run, or give into the urge to collapse onto the paved driveway and scream her heartache to the sky.

# # # # # # #

Macklin frowned as the door closed behind Maggie, seeing the tension running through her like a current of electricity. Maggie could hide her feelings from almost anyone, but Brian Macklin was an expert at reading Maggie Draven.

His gaze fell on the woman who had undoubtedly caused the problem. Eloise Macklin, 35 years of age. Beautiful, intelligent, well-bred. He hadn't set eyes on her for almost four years.

"Why are you here, Eloise?" he asked, seeing with frightening clarity how this must have looked to Maggie.

Eloise nodded in the direction Maggie had left. "She's very young, Brian," she said with a teasing smile.

"She's none of your business," he replied curtly, not missing her failure to answer his question. Maggie was actually only a year or so younger than his wife, but her pale, pretty face, devoid of make-up, looked ten years younger, and her smile had the unconscious innocence of youth.

Eloise pouted fondly and stepped towards him, reaching up to press her soft cheek against his face and kiss the air beside him.

"I see congratulations are in order," he said dryly, his gaze dropping to her swollen belly.

She smiled and placed her hands on the bump. "Yes," she agreed happily.

"And you couldn't have discussed this over the telephone?" he accused gently.

"You are a difficult man to contact," she chided. "Fortunately, one of the prerogatives of being a wife is being able to command information on the whereabouts of one's husband."

"Eloise," he began, a warning note in his voice.

She brushed past him, entering the kitchen. Her pale blue eyes travelled over the cluttered worktops, covered with flour, dribbles of cake mix, and drops of melted chocolate. One perfectly arched eyebrow rose in surprise.

"My, my, Brian. You've become quite domesticated," she purred.

She pulled a chair from under the table and sat primly, avoiding the mess and clutter of their cooking.

Macklin eyed the mess fondly, his hard blue eyes softening with memory. It hadn't felt like cooking; it had been another game, another flirtation. It seemed everything in the last four months had been a pleasure. Even chores became joyous when she stood beside him, laughing, teasing, loving.

What had she thought when faced with Eloise?

The blonde haired woman had seen the softening in her husband's expression, and knew him well enough to know it was unusual – or more accurately, unheard of.

His features froze again when he caught her observing him, and she smiled at him, recognising the defensive manner.

"You love her," she said simply. It was not a question.

The steel-blue eyes narrowed. "Yes," he said easily.

She smiled again and turned to her bag, pulling a buff coloured envelope from the pink leather depths.

"I'm here because I want a divorce, Brian," she said, her voice brusque. "And if you love the girl, you'll be amenable to that request."

"Why did you need to come here for that?" he asked.

Her pale blue eyes were wide and candid. "Because I thought it would be easier face-to-face," she replied. "Five years' separation," she continued, her manner brisk. "We don't require any Prayer to the Divorce Petition. Just mutual agreement."

"And that's all?" he insisted.

She nodded. "That's all."

He took the envelope from her warily, scanning the contents with a frown of concentration.

Eloise regarded him carefully. There was no affection between them any more, but no animosity either. Brian had not been a bad husband – he had not mistreated her in any way. He had never committed adultery while they were together. Nevertheless, she could never shake the feeling that, in marrying her, he somehow felt he had settled for second best.

Eloise had never considered herself second-best to anyone.

Macklin had not betrayed her physically with another woman, but she always thought, in his mind, he had been thinking of someone else.

It had broken her heart once, many years before. But she was practical and pragmatic, and she knew that he had never intended to hurt her. She suspected their marriage had caused him as much pain as it had her.

He finished reading the documents and reached for a pen on the nearby dresser. She scanned the shelves of mismatched Wedgwood, Coalport, Spode and Dresden. No two plates were alike. It was delightfully messy, and so unlike the military precision of the Brian Macklin she had known that she smiled to herself.

He signed the documents, his signature neat and precise, before holding them out to her.

"Agreed," he said.

She stood and took the documents from him, sliding them back into her bag.

"Thank you," she said.

"I hope you'll be happy," he said, touched by the genuine gratitude in her eyes.

She smiled contentedly. "Oh, I will be," she said with certainty. She regarded him for another second. "If she's second best to whoever it is you've been wanting all these years, promise me you'll never let her know it." He was struck by the earnest look in her eyes.

"Is that how you felt? Second-best?" he asked gently.

She nodded, giving him a wan smile as she reached out to stroke his cheek.

"I didn't..."

She hushed him softly, interrupting his confession. "I know you never meant to do it, Brian," she said. "But we notice these things after a while. A wistful look, a sigh of regret, a painful memory." Her pale blue eyes had no hurt in them now, only knowledge. "She loves you, probably more than I did. Just don't ever let her know."

He swallowed with difficulty, a knot of emotion in his throat. If Eloise had been second-best – and if he was honest, she had been, - it was only because Maggie had already claimed him.

He followed her to the front door, unable to give voice to the tumble of thoughts in his head. At the door, he bent down to offer his cheek for a farewell press of powdered skin. Her fingers curled around his arms, gripping him tightly.

"Be happy, Brian," she whispered, planting her lips to his cheek in an unexpected kiss.

"I am," he reassured her.

She smiled at him one last time before turning and making for her silver Mercedes. He watched her leave, tyres crunching over the long driveway and into the distance.

He closed the door, leaning his head against it with a sigh.

He was happy. Or he had been. Now he had to wait for Maggie to return before he could feel secure in his happiness.

# # # # # # #

Cowley opened the door leading from his office, and was met by the sight of his god-daughter sitting in Betty's chair. His secretary had left for the evening two hours before, so he had no idea of how long Maggie had been sitting there, her trainer-clad feet crossed on top of the desk, her hands clasped over her stomach.

Violet eyes regarded him balefully, daring him to comment.

"Feet off the desk, girl," he snarled with little heat. Despite her mutinous look, she obeyed.

"I thought you were on leave," he continued, watching her carefully.

"I am," she agreed.

"And Brian?" Cowley added. Macklin and Magpie were a better kept secret than anything covered by the Official Secrets' Act, but Cowley had eyes and his mind was more twisted than the Gordian Knot. It may be a secret unknown by anyone else, but to Cowley it had only ever been a matter of time.

"In the Lake District, as far as I know," she replied. He noticed she had refused to say 'home'.

"If you've had a lover's tiff, lassie..."

"Oh don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "If Brian and I argue, I can assure you, the mat and the firing range soon settle it." A bizarre romance, Cowley had to admit, but it worked very well indeed. "Anyway," she continued, "I wouldn't employ the services of a wily old goat like you."

"Less of the 'old', my girl," he scolded gently. He regarded her carefully. "So – to what do I owe this pleasure?" he enquired archly.

Her mutinous look returned. "I just wanted a drive," she replied.

He knew he wouldn't get any more out of her until she felt ready to talk about it. If she ever did.

"Then you can drive me home," he said, throwing her his car keys. She caught them as he turned back to close the door to his office. He gestured for her to walk ahead of him, a calculating look in his grey eyes.

# # # # # # #

The drive to his home was completed in silence. She parked his red Granada outside the quiet mews house. No sooner had she killed the lights and engine than Cowley's car 'phone beeped and flashed.

"Yes?" Cowley's tone was brusque. Whatever was said to him, the granite mask did not flinch.

"Call me at my home in three minutes," he commanded. He left the car, aware of the solid thunk as Maggie locked it, before falling in behind him. She hung back, jingling his car keys in her hands as she watched and waited. He opened the front door, stepping inside to disable the alarm. She loitered hesitantly on his step, her eyes shadowed.

"Well?" he said impatiently. "Come in."

She slid into his home gratefully, and he pretended not to notice the relief briefly relaxing her features.

She brushed past him as he hung his coat on a nearby peg, and entered his lounge. The street lights shone amber through the darkening gloom. The sound of his telephone ringing roused him from his thoughts, and he left her alone to answer the call in his study.

Maggie stared out of the window, blind to the cobbled stones and whitewashed houses. She was oblivious to the soft murmuring coming from the adjoining study. Her whole attention was turned inwards.

The tension inside her slowly drained as her senses responded to the security of Cowley's home and the reassurance of his solid presence nearby. She felt her muscles complaining at hours of driving. At first, she had had no destination in mind, just driving around aimlessly, then with growing certainty as she found herself on the motorway heading south. Instinct had brought her to Cowley's office at CI5, not having any other idea in her mind but to get as far away from Mr. and Mrs. Macklin as possible.

What else could she do?, she asked herself, folding her arms around her, holding the pain and emptiness inside. She couldn't have tolerated the uncomfortable feeling of intrusion she would have felt at the sight of them together any more than she could the look of discomfort and unease she knew would be on Macklin's face, or the smug expression she imagined on the cool perfection of Eloise Macklin.

She closed her eyes, trying to inure herself to the pain still sharp and bright inside her.

She had never felt jealous before. It had always struck her that if she truly loved someone, then jealousy would be a natural instinct. In the few months she had been with Doyle, she knew he had seen other women, and the realisation that she viewed this faithlessness with little more than wry amusement had brought home to her the fact that, however much she loved Doyle – and she did love him, she would never deny that – it wasn't the romantic kind of love that claimed ownership or any kind of possessive streak.

Not how she loved Macklin – an all-consuming love that was like the need for food and water. Like needing the very air for breath. With Macklin, she felt complete, secure in the knowledge of who she was and her place in the world. Without him, she was adrift again, as she had been so many years ago. She could feel the cloying darkness around her again, threatening to overwhelm and suffocate her. If she went back to that life – if she resurrected the cold, efficient assassin, Magpie – she didn't know if she would be able to claw her way back out again.

Macklin made her.

She was dimly aware of Cowley entering the room behind her. She turned, and the tight grey expression on the man's face aged him ten years. Her own problems became secondary, pushed into the background with detached, professional ease.

"What is it?"

Grey eyes watched her, sadness in their depths. "Bodie and Doyle didn't make their check-in call," Cowley said, his voice flat and expressionless.

# # # # # # #

By late afternoon, Macklin's anger had settled to a steady simmer. The kitchen was immaculate again, all traces of the morning erased.

As the sun dropped on the horizon, however, and Macklin sat on a rough stone wall outside, a glass of whisky glowing amber in a sparkling crystal glass held in his hand, he allowed the fear to creep in.

She had run before, slipping out of Hong Kong from right under his nose. How she had got out of the country, he didn't know. He was more worried about how she had earned the money to do it. He had not, as yet, had the courage to ask.

The difficulty lay in her complete self-reliance and sufficiency. She could have bolt holes all over country, safe places stocked with cash, guns and IDs, leaving her more than able to disappear anywhere in the world. And he would never know where to start looking.

She was the best he had trained. There were times that caused more frustration than pride.

The sun dropped over the horizon, and with it went the warmth in the breeze. The autumn was mild, continuing later than normal for the season. The nights had lost the cloying, oppressive heat of summer, and when the sun had gone, the unseasonably warm temperatures fell rapidly. He shivered, unwilling to abandon his vigil – not that he would admit to standing sentry, waiting for her. He had more pride than that.

Just. That was the only problem. His love for Maggie was wrapped inside him, caught in every heartbeat, every breath. There could be no real question of pride with love like that. It should embarrass him, leave him unmanned. Instead, he felt only strength.

He took his glass indoors, the rich amber liquid untouched.

# # # # # # #

Cowley handed the crystal tumbler to Maggie, the healthy measure of Laphroaig single malt whisky reflecting in the cut glass.

"It's a big operation. National. I've got all available agents spread out all over the country, infiltrating different parts of the network." He sipped his whisky thoughtfully. "If 4-5 and 3-7 have been captured, there's no-one spare to take their place."

"Or to rescue them," she added gently. Cowley's eyes flashed at the unspoken suggestion that he'd needed the reminder.

"Or rescue them," he agreed, his voice tight with anger.

"What's the target?" she asked, ignoring his fury.

"There's an election coming up next year, which means an election budget," he explained, his temper back under control. "The current government is all for cuts, but bad on spending, unless it's on one of their own." Cowley spoke candidly, as he knew he could to her. "Oh, they're very keen to take credit for military achievements and technology, but bloody poor at investing in it. And yet the budget increases."

"So it's being syphoned off?"

"Aye," he said, his voice lowering, responsibility weighing heavily on his narrow shoulders. "When you look through the expenses, the invoices, the whole budget set-up, it reeks of corruption. Whitehall is turning into the biggest red-light district in the country."

"Nothing fresh there," she said grimly.

"Maybe not, but it's prime target for blackmail as well. There's a lot of pies, Maggie, with a lot of fingers in them."

"So where are your four and twenty blackbirds?"

"All over," he replied. "Infiltrating prostitution rings, drug rackets, building projects, industry bids – from the highest to the lowest. It's all over."

"So what do you think happened to Bodie and Doyle?"

He shook his head, leaning back into his chair wearily. "Who knows? Depending who's in on the deals, it could be they've run into some criminal who recognised them, or a minister who knows where they work. I need that gap plugged, Maggie. And I want my men back."

She contemplated the whisky in her glass, rolling the tumbler between her hands thoughtfully. "And what were they up to before you lost contact?" she asked.

"Bodie was getting leads on the ministers and MPs they were setting up. Doyle was collating the evidence being used to blackmail them. It all seems to trace back to one man, but he's well-connected. I need watertight evidence to move against him."

"Any idea where they'd take them? What they'd do to them?" Maggie's voice was calm, her tone detached. Someone who didn't know her – and there were many – would call it cold, callous. Cowley recognised it as the same professional detachment she always adopted when considering a problem; the calm, resolute manner she had learned from Macklin. Or maybe it was natural to her, and Macklin had simply helped her perfect it.

Nearly a year now she'd been working with Macklin. Her instincts, always preternaturally sharp and acute, had been honed back to their maximum under Macklin's tutorship. Maggie was back to her full fighting and tactical potential; maybe even better, now she had left the life of an assassin behind her. Without the complications of unfamiliar guilt and threatening paranoia, Maggie had become a finely tuned weapon.

He wondered if he could still utilise her ferocious tactical skills and killing instincts.

He knew from the calculating look in her dark blue eyes that she was thinking the same thing.

"We know of a house in Windsor," he began carefully. "Doyle was told to deliver some documents there a week or so ago. He said he got the distinct impression it was considered a great privilege."

She sipped her whisky thoughtfully, savouring the smoky warmth. "It's a good place to start."

"Maggie." His voice held a note of warning. As desperate as he was for any help, he still retained his sense of caution. "You're not a field agent. I'm not disputing you abilities, girl, but are you sure you're up to this?"

She regarded him for a moment. Anyone else might have been offended. In a different mood, she would have been angry. As it was, in her emotionally detached state, she could examine his question dispassionately and recognise the logic of it.

"I'm more used to getting in somewhere and killing someone, it's true," she admitted, her candour adding extra coldness to her callous appraisal. "But I'm sure I can adapt." There was a tinge of mockery in her lazy drawl.

"Just get in and see if they're there. If they are, just get out to tell me," he instructed clearly. "This is not a search and rescue, or a search and destroy. Only search, Maggie. You understand?"

She nodded. Her experience was in killing, not protecting. If Cowley wanted people left alive to answer questions, she wasn't his best option.

"Fine. I'll locate them, and you can rally the troops and send in the cavalry," she agreed.

He watched her take another sip of whisky. "And what about Brian Macklin?"

She paused, her lips hovering over the rim of the glass as she raised her eyes to glare at him. "What about him?" she asked, the trace of a snarl in her voice. "I'll deal with it when I get back."

"You moved from Doyle to Macklin with what could be considered unseemly haste."

Anger glittered in her eyes. "I never considered you a voyeur before, Uncle George," she said quietly, her voice soft and poisonous.

"Anything that affects my people and their efficiency is my business," he replied, maintaining a calm, reasonable tone in the face of her fury.

She placed her glass on the table beside her with exaggerated care. "I see. This is not merely avuncular curiosity, then?"

He refused to allow her to goad him into an argument. It would give her the excuse to allow her temper full rein. "If I'm to send you on this mission, Magpie," he said, reverting to her professional name, "then I must be sure you are operating at peak efficiency. For your sake, and the sake of my men."

She pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. He had pricked her Achilles' Heel of professional pride. In light of the job she had decided to undertake, she had to agree that he did have the right to question her ability to perform.

"Doyle and I are friends, nothing more. I ended the relationship because I could see it had run its course. It was flawed. No other reason. We remain on good terms."

"And Macklin?"

"My relationship with Macklin is none of your damn business," she snarled angrily.

He brushed imaginary lint from his trousers, his manner brusque and efficient. "I beg to differ," he drawled.

She reined in her temper. He saw the difficulty she had in doing so, and wondered at the protective instinct he had unleashed in his mention of Macklin.

The more important something was to her, the less likely she was to speak about it. And any attempt to force her resulted in such a surge of anger and resentment that Cowley always wondered how such a small, slightly built woman could contain such venom.

It seemed Macklin was in the very elite group that she kept so protected.

"Your relationship with Macklin had not affected either of you in terms of performance. As yet." He saw her anger dancing dangerously near the surface, barely under control. "But consider this," he continued, wondering what it would take to shatter that last remaining chain of self-control. "I'm sending you to locate an ex-lover, while you're obviously estranged from your current lover."

Something slammed shut behind her eyes, something that caught and froze her anger just as it was about to unleash.

"I will find Bodie and Doyle," she said, stressing both names, her voice calm. "Not because I screwed Doyle to within an inch of his life on a number of occasions." He flinched at her crudity and saw a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she savoured his distaste. "But because they're your men, and you need help." He felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn't considered her loyalty earlier. Maggie's respect and loyalty was hard won, but once given, never revoked.

"As for Macklin," she continued with measured deliberation. "I will deal with him when I get back. And what goes on between us is none of your business." Her voice trembled with barely concealed anger. "I won't have you questioning his efficiency. Do you understand me?" He heard the warning note in her voice, amazed at the ferocity of her look when she spoke of Macklin. Like a lioness protecting her young.

Whatever they had fought about, Cowley knew it hadn't lessened his god-daughter's love for the man. He found it reassuring.

"I do understand," he agreed gently, not wishing to provoke her further now he knew the depth of her feelings. "And I accept your assurance that none of this will affect the mission."

She retrieved her glass, sitting back in her chair, her fury evaporating slowly. She maintained a wary expression. "I want all the information, recordings, pictures – everything. No transcripts. I want to hear everything."

"It will be here in the morning," he agreed.

She finished her whisky, letting the burning heat slide down into the pit of her stomach. She stood up.

"Then I'll just go and take over your spare room and your spare toothbrush," she drawled, daring him to object. When he didn't, she placed her empty glass on the table beside him with deliberate care.

"Don't ever suggest Macklin is losing his edge," she hissed. "Ever."

He heard the door close quietly behind her, and the gentle creak of her footsteps up the stairs and across the floorboards of the first floor.

The ormolu clock on the mantlepiece read half past midnight. He sipped his Scotch thoughtfully and reached for the telephone.

# # # # # # #

Macklin lay in the huge double bed, crisp cotton sheets lying across his legs. He lay stretched out on his back, arms underneath his head. Moonlight streamed through the open windows, playing over the muscles of his chest, abdomen and arms, silver highlights and black shadows casting each muscle in stark relief. Only his eyes, catching silver rays and glinting in the darkness, betrayed his humanity. He lay like a perfect marble statue, lit by moonlight.

He could not sleep. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart. The empty space beside him ached like a wound to his senses. Outside, in the fields and gardens surrounding the rambling Victorian house, a fox gave a coughing bark and yip. He heard an owl hooting amongst the trees.

Predators in the night. But not the one he still waited for; not his Magpie.

The shrill ringing of the telephone pierced through the silence and he was on his feet before he had even identified the noise. He answered it as it started its second scream. His voice sounded remarkably calm considering his pounding heartbeat. In the split second between rings, he had played out every eventuality the telephone call might bring.

"Brian," Cowley's voice answered his calm greeting, and Macklin tensed, waiting to see which scenario would ensue.

"George," he acknowledged.

"I'm not asking you what's going on between you and Maggie, Brian, and I don't want to know." The curt, clipped Scottish voice sounded tired. "All I will tell you is that she's here and she's safe."

Macklin wasn't aware of sitting down until he felt the mattress underneath him.

"Is she coming back?" he asked. There was no pleading in his voice, nothing to betray the relief he felt at the news, and the fear at what she might do next.

"She says she will sort it out. She won't be drawn further," Cowley replied. He was not fooled by the coolness Macklin assumed. Like Maggie, Macklin was tight-lipped about anything that mattered.

"She's doing a job for me over the next few days," Cowley continued. "It'll give her time to cool down," he added kindly, his voice a little warmer.

Macklin caught the unspoken reassurance. "Thank you, George," Macklin breathed, unable to stop the relief sounding in his voice.

He gave Cowley his good-night in return and replaced the telephone on its cradle.

He lay back down on the bed, instinctively settling into the warmth he had left before. His hands behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling, a slight smile on his lips.

She was safe. She would return. He would explain, and everything would be back. The world could begin to spin again.

She was safe.

He closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep.

# # # # # # #

It was the change in breathing that first alerted Doyle to Bodie's slow ascent back to consciousness. He didn't know how long he had lain listening to the slow, steady breathing of his partner. His watch had been taken; Bodie's too, leaving them adrift in the gloom. Doyle had no idea how long he had been unconscious before bleary wakefulness returned to him. Since then he had had nothing to do but listen to Bodie's steady breathing and wait.

Bodie groaned. Doyle watched as the dark head bobbed cautiously before rising. Dark blue eyes, black in the dim light, blinked in sleepy confusion.

Bodie licked his lips with a grimace. "Me mouth feels like an Arab camel rider's jockstrap," he announced thickly.

"Can't say I know what that's like for the purposes of comparison," Doyle replied, relieved more than he could say to hear Bodie's voice at last.

"So what happened?" Bodie asked, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

"Someone's got loose lips," Doyle said grimly. "One of your passengers saw us with Cowley at one of his clubs once upon a time. He couldn't quite place us til he saw us together."

"Bloody typical. And the spotted dick wasn't even that special."

Doyle smiled in the gloom. Typical Bodie.

"How are we doing?"

That wiped the smile from his face. "It's a cellar, I think. Looks like wine racks over there, and steps on the far side. No windows, no natural light that I've seen. I'm cuffed to some chain on the wall, and they've took my watch. I don't know if it's night or day." As situations went, it seemed fairly bleak.

He saw Bodie nod. "Same here from what I can tell." Bodie sniffed. "Bloody cruel to chain us up where we can't get to the wine, though."

Doyle leaned back, shifting slightly to ease the stiffness in his spine. The single bare light bulb between them glowed dimly, as bright as one candle but nowhere near as cheerful.

"Any idea what they've got in store for us?"

Doyle sighed. "Dunno, mate, but I'm guessing it won't be much fun."

"Bound to have missed our check in," Bodie offered.

"Yeah," Doyle agreed. "But there's no-one to send, is there?" he added.

Bodie couldn't bring himself to argue the case for optimism. He knew it was a losing battle.

"Just you and me, then," he agreed,

Doyle looked over to him, wreathed in shadows. The sole light bulb made his uneven face look hard and unyielding, but there was warmth in the dark eyes.

"Been here before," Doyle said. "You and me against the world."

Bodie couldn't suppress his grin. "And we're still here," he said, stubborn pride in his voice.

Doyle could only return the boyish grin. "So far, so good," he agreed.

Bodie leaned back against the wall behind him, feeling the remaining side effects of the knock-out drug. "We'll think of something," he reassured calmly. "We always do."

Doyle settled back against his own side of the cellar. "That's the truth," he agreed.

"So what happened to you?" Bodie asked.

Doyle shrugged, jangling his chains. "Opened the front door and – bam – blow dart to the neck. What does he think this is – a Sherlock Holmes' story?"

"It is a bit melodramatic," Bodie agreed.

"What's in them darts anyway?"

"Curare, probably," Bodie ventured. "Diluted, of course. Or urali."

"I thought that was deadly?"

"It is, mate," Bodie replied earnestly. "You don't want too many of those stings. No cure either, mainly because it works so fast."

Doyle was silent, allowing the information to seep in. "Bit showy, though, isn't it?" he said at last.

Bodie smiled. "Yeah, well. Maybe they're compensating for something."

Doyle smiled in the gloom. The world was already a better place now Bodie was awake.

The sound of the cellar door being unlocked suggested the world was going to become a very interesting place as well.

The light from the open door lit up a larger portion of the cellar. Both men took in as much information as possible while the opportunity lasted. They only had a split second before their captors presented themselves, however, and instinct decreed they pay attention to the four people who descended the steps into the cellar.

The diminutive Oriental woman was first. Tiny and doll-like, nevertheless she moved with a kind of sinuous menace that reminded Doyle of Magpie. Behind her, Bodie recognised the man who had sat in the leather chair when he had been knocked unconscious. A pale linen suit, casually expensive, fitted him perfectly. Long blond hair lay in a ponytail down his back, his hair slicked back and shining with health. Mark Adams – eligible bachelor, fond of charities, supporter of the arts – and number one suspect in Cowley's eyes. Handsome, tanned and obviously rich, he moved like a shark, a lazy predatory gait that sent alarm bells ringing through both agents.

Behind him loomed the massive bulk of Jefferson – not the brightest, perhaps, but with muscles like his, it was clear he wasn't required for his intelligence.

The last man down the stairs was tall and thin, dark-haired, in a dark suit. Round glasses with darkened lenses gave his sharp, bird-like features added menace.

The situation did not look promising.

The woman flicked a switch at the foot of the steps, and Bodie and Doyle found themselves blinking in the stark, white lighting.

"You're CI5," Adams stated coolly.

"Who? Him?" Doyle nodded towards Bodie.

"Don't play games with me." The deceptively calm voice was chilling. Doyle suppressed a shiver. "Both of you are CI5. Cowley's men. I don't need you to confirm it. All I want to know is how many more of you are there? How many have infiltrated my operations?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Bodie drawled with lazy insolence.

Adams gave a smile that held no humour. "Miller," he called.

The dark haired man stepped forward. Adams gestured to him with one hand. "Miller here will be so glad to help you remember."

Doyle tensed at the pale lipped smile that tugged at Miller's mouth.

"Now look – we don't even know who you are," he began, allowing a note of panic into his voice. He needed to shake them, at least try to instil some doubt, try to buy them some time.

Another gesture from Adams stopped Miller in his tracks. "No formal introductions? How remiss of me," he mocked gently. "However, who I am is none of your concern. My delightful companion here," - he cast a glance to the woman - "is Mai. Don't be fooled by her gender and size. While she's an expert with poisons, she does also have a flair for the more hands-on approach."

"Oh good," Bodie said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "Only I've had this crick in between my shoulder blades for weeks now. I could do with a massage."

Anger flared in her dark brown eyes and she whirled into a low roundhouse kick that slammed into Bodie's side, leaving him whooping and gasping for breath. Long nails dug into his cheeks as she gripped his face, leaning over him with her other arm raised to strike.

"Mai," Adams snapped, commanding her attention. Reluctantly, she released Bodie, her nails leaving little crescent marks on his skin.

"Patience," Adams continued when she had calmed. "These are professionals. They won't break easily. You'll have a very long time indeed to teach them respect." He reached out and took her elbow, leading her from the cellar. "I'll leave you to get better acquainted with Miller, shall I? I'm sure it will be a while before you start saying anything I'd be interested in hearing, and there's no sense in wasting my time."

"But we don't know anything!" Doyle yelled, putting as much conviction into his voice as possible.

Adams turned back to them, his handsome face a cold mask. "I hope for your sake that's not the case. Else you are going to suffer a great deal for no purpose." He turned back to the stairs, guiding Mai in front of him.

Bodie and Doyle eyed the two remaining men. The chains that held them didn't give much room for manoeuvre, and they were too far apart to offer each other any hope of protection.

It was definitely going to be an interesting wait.

# # # # # # #

Miller and Jefferson entered the pool room, Miller fastidiously wiping his hands on a white handkerchief, turning the pristine linen pink with blood.

Adams lay on a lounger, the remains of breakfast on a tray beside him. Mai cut slow lengths through the pool, her lithe body making no ripple.

"Well?" Adams demanded.

"What do you expect?" Miller replied. His voice was dry and rasping, with a tinge of an accent that could be South African or Russian, it was difficult to be sure. "They won't start talking yet. They just refuse to answer."

Adams gave a sigh of frustration. "Pity. I've got a meeting set up with a senior member of the cabinet, and unless he starts making good on his promises, I'll be leaking certain information to the press that should see him in some very hot water for a few years."

"Who would replace him?" Miller asked.

Adams shrugged. "I have a couple of more dynamic men who would be willing to make certain concessions, if I put them in a useful position," he admitted cagily.

Miller nodded. He did not really care about the politics, or the messy plots and sub-plots that built and sustained Adams' empire. All he cared about were the freedoms Adams gave him. He knew such freedoms only lasted as long as he provided results.

"And you can't find anything on this Cowley? Nothing to bring him into line?"

Adams sighed and sat up, fixing Miller with a look of rapidly disappearing patience. "George Cowley leads a life of such righteous purity, it makes you sick to read about it," he said, his voice sharp with frustration. "I'm sure the man has his vices, but they would only serve to make him more interesting. There's nothing there that would cause even the most tight-laced maiden aunt the slightest flush of indignation." He lay back down on the lounger and closed his eyes. "It's positively immoral how moral the man is," he announced.

"No-one is perfect," Miller objected.

"No, Miller, they're not. However, not everyone is sufficiently embarrassed by their indiscretions as to be prone to blackmail. George Cowley could be screwing the Queen Mother, but if you ever tried to blackmail him about it, he would tell you to publish and be damned." His eyes opened again, focussing on the ripples of light playing across the ceiling. "Then the old goat would probably turn it all around on its head and end up with a knighthood for services rendered."

"Then what do you intend to do?" 

A predatory smile played over Adams' mouth as he closed his eyes again. "The way to get to Cowley is by draining his team. We find his agents, and we remove them. And then, he'll have to go cap in hand to his minister for funding for replacements. And that's when we get him."

It seemed unnecessarily complicated to Miller. He would have thought an assassin the easiest option. But assassins had tried for Cowley before.

"I'll give them a couple of hours to start feeling their bruises," Miller said. "Then we'll try again."

Adams did not acknowledge him, but both Miller and Jefferson knew they had been dismissed.

# # # # # # #

Doyle lay on his side, curled around the pain of his ribs, stomach and kidneys. His face throbbed, and when he probed his mouth with a gently questing tongue, he felt a wobble in a previously solid molar. He opened one eye. Miller had been meticulous in ensuring they both retained the ability to see, and to speak.

Bodie lay opposite him on his back, both knees drawn up. He breathed in rapid, short gasps, absorbing the pain and trying to let it dissipate. Doyle hoped it worked for him.

"You alright, mate?" he asked, his voice sounding rough and rasping to his ears.

"Just fine and dandy, thank you for asking," Bodie replied, trying for smooth sarcasm and almost managing it. "What about you?"

"I never thought I'd meet someone who made Towser look like a pushover."

Bodie gasped. "Don't make me laugh, Doyle. You make me laugh, and I swear I'll gnaw my own leg off and beat you to death with it."

Doyle winced as he stifled a laugh. "Okay, maybe not," he agreed.

"Do you think that's why the old man sent us to Macklin? Get us immune to torture?"

"Fight fire with fire, you mean?" Doyle asked. He dismissed the idea. "Nah. Macklin's a bastard, alright, but at least he's on our side."

"Scary thought, that," Bodie said. "So what's the damage?" he added.

Doyle sat up with difficulty, hissing as various bruises made themselves known. "Ribs are battered," he began. "And I think I've got a couple of loose back teeth"

"Bang goes your winning smile," Bodie teased.

"Hey, don't write them off yet," Doyle snapped before running his tongue over them again to check. "I look after my teeth," he complained. "What about you?" he added.

"Oh, me too," Bodie agreed. "Brush twice a day, regular as clockwork."

"Pillock," Doyle said, without rancour. "You know what I meant."

"Yeah, I know." Bodie sounded more subdued, and Doyle immediately regretted snapping at him. "Think I'll be pissing blood for a while," Bodie admitted. "That Jefferson's got fists like lump hammers."

"Yeah," Doyle agreed solemnly. "I suppose they'll give us a couple of hours to get good and sore, then start again."

"Sounds about right."

Doyle stared at the ceiling and the single light bulb. "Bloody Cowley, stretching us all so thin. Never thought of this, did he?"

"There's very little Cowley doesn't think of," Bodie said.

Doyle considered his words, allowing the truth of them. "Then I hope he's got something tucked away for a rainy day, mate, cus I think it's pissing it down now."

# # # # # # #

Miller left them for exactly two hours, before returning. Jefferson lumbered behind him. Doyle eyed the hose in the big man's hands warily.

"I wonder if you gentlemen have had sufficient time to consider your options?" Miller asked. Behind him, Jefferson attached the hose to a standing pipe.

"We've got nothing to say," Doyle replied, his voice firm.

Miller turned his attention to Bodie. "And you?"

Bodie gave an insolent smile. "I'm sorry, sir, I can't answer that question."

Miller gave a heavy sigh of feigned disappointment. He removed his tinted glasses with deliberate care and fixed them with a look of unholy amusement.

"There are days when I love my job," he said with a gentle smile.

The freezing water was like needles all over their skin, causing them to gasp at the shock, then gag as water filled their mouths. It blinded and deafened them, pounded against flesh already bruised and battered. When the jet suddenly stopped, the silence was shocking, as though they had been left deaf.

"Well?" Miller prompted.

Doyle shook his head, water springing from his curls. His wide green eyes looked momentarily dazed as he caught his breath.

"Yeah," he growled, his voice rough and breathless.

Miller raised one eyebrow in polite enquiry.

"Didn't you know there's a hose pipe ban on?"

Miller gave a look of bored disappointment and gestured for Jefferson to turn the hose back on.

# # # # # # #

Adams continued with his conversation, barely registering Miller as he entered the wood panelled study.

"Everyone," Adams was saying, his cultured tones curt and precise. "I want all their names with me by tomorrow morning." He replaced the handset without further comment.

"Well?" He turned his attention to the sombre suited Miller.

Miller brushed his hand across the lapel of his jacket with affected primness. He didn't care for Adams' tone. He was a professional, not a thug for hire like Jefferson, or a half-crazed sadist like Mai.

"You don't break CI5 men in a few hours," he replied caustically.

Miller's grey eyes darkened. "Mai seems to think she would have had them talking by now."

Miller sniffed, signifying his displeasure. "I'm sure she would think that," he replied archly. "However, what she would have undoubtedly done is silence them forever." Mai lacked discipline in Miller's considered opinion.

Adams inspected his watch. "It's 2.30," he announced. The grey eyes regarded Miller with cold determination. "By tomorrow morning, I will have a list of all new people who've joined operations within the last two months. I will want them to go through and point out their associates."

Miller nodded. "Understood. But you have to appreciate their first answers may not be truthful. Men will say anything to make the pain stop, and it's not always the truth."

"That's for you to find out," Adams replied. "If there's nothing by morning, Mai will join you."

Miller's lip curled in distaste and Adams smiled. The battle for supremacy between his two pet sadists always caused him amusement. Mai had learned that her womanly wiles did not work on him. Even if they had, Mai was a Black Widow, quite capable of killing a man simply for her own pleasure. Adams preferred not to speculate about what pushed her particular buttons. Besides, Adams' own interests did not lie in willing partners.

Miller, though, was even more enigmatic than the Oriental woman. With his wandering accent and prim, almost ascetic appearance, the man nevertheless had a cruel streak to match Mai's, but tempered by discipline. While Mai broke and smashed her toys, Miller methodically took them apart to show their inner workings.

"Go on, then." Adams dismissed him with an airy wave, watching as the man bristled, turning on his heel, and leaving. The door closed with a quiet snick, but Adams knew Miller wanted to slam it.

He grinned to himself. Playing them off against each other afforded him all kinds of pleasure.

# # # # # # #

Doyle sat, curled in on himself. Opposite him, Bodie sat in the same position. The shivering that wracked Doyle seemed more pronounced than Bodie. Doyle's teeth chattered painfully, making him mutter a curse when his tongue got caught between uncontrollable teeth.

Bodie's eyes looked dark and bruised, the dim bulb only enhancing the play of light and shade on his pale face.

Both men were drenched in freezing water, their clothes and bodies sodden. Water dropped with a silvery, hollow sound, echoing around the dark cellar as each drop added to the pool in which the men sat.

Bodie watched Doyle shiver, wanting to tell him that he looked like a drowned rat, but lacking the strength for even a show of humour. The cold clawed at them, making them drowsy and sluggish, leeching away their youth and vitality.

He hoped whatever twisted plan Cowley had up his sleeve worked soon. Before cracked ribs conspired with the freezing cold water and turned rasping breathing into agonised gasps.

# # # # # # #

Miller reaped the rewards for his meticulous groundwork. Both men were battered and bloodied, too intent of keeping some of their rapidly diminishing energy in reserve in case of a chance for escape to put up too much of a struggle when he added to their injuries.

Doyle sat, his eyes dim with pain, sweat sheening his face from the agony of Miller slowly bending back the little finger of his left hand. As soon as the burning, scalding pain had lessened to mere agony, Miller repeated the action with Doyle's ring finger. Bodie had suffered the same, partners in this as in everything.

The temperature in the cellar remained constant, so they had no indication of when the sun went down. The slow realisation that Miller had left them alone much longer than usual was the only suggestion they had that perhaps it was night-time. Even then, they could not relax, frayed reflexes alight for the slightest indication of his return.

"How you doing?" Doyle rasped. Bodie heard the faint wheeze behind his words and knew his own breathing was just as laboured and painful.

"I reckon we're about eight hours away from pneumonia," he replied. "Or starvation," he added, as Doyle's stomach gurgled loudly.

"Well, at least we won't die of thirst," Doyle said.

Despite the pain and cold, both men found themselves drowsing uneasily as the night wore on, although they remained oblivious to the passing of time.

Both men came instantly awake as the cellar door banged open. The bright light flared, temporarily blinding them. They tensed, waiting for the torment to continue.

Jefferson lumbered slowly down the steps, a black clad figure slung over his shoulder. Doyle saw Bodie's expression shift slightly as the big man walked past him, allowing Bodie a better view of the body.

When Jefferson threw the body into the corner of the room, Doyle saw the reason for his partner's surprise. Magpie lay unconscious on the ragged mattress hidden in the corner of the cellar.

Miller had followed Jefferson into the cellar, watching the two prisoners carefully for any sign of recognition. All he noted was surprise and curiosity.

"Do you know this woman? Is she an associate of yours?" he demanded, as Jefferson slid chains and cuffs around each wrist and ankle.

"No idea," Doyle said firmly. The positioning of the chains that held her caused him to frown. Then he felt a surge of fear as the vulnerability of her situation became apparent.

"If she's not CI5, she is of no use to us," Miller said, his tone clipped. He drew his gun from his shoulder holster smoothly, pulling the slide back to cock the Browning.

"Wait." Bodie avoided showing any concern for the woman's predicament, but Doyle knew him better than that. Bodie was thinking fast, trying to stop Miller putting a bullet in the back of Maggie's head.

"So you do know her," he demanded with triumphant glee.

Bodie gave him a lazy look. "Yeah," he agreed. "At least, I recognise her," he admitted with a drawl.

"So she is CI5 as well?"

Bodie gave a harsh laugh, wincing at the stab of pain it caused. "Not bloody likely," he replied.

Miller glared, his patience wearing thin. He stalked past Jefferson and put the muzzle of the Hi-Power against her head.

"Tell me who she is," he demanded.

Bodie exchanged a look with Doyle, conveying a whole conversation in a glance.

"Well, it's safe to say it's not just CI5 interested in your boss," Doyle said at last.

"What do you mean?"

Bodie rolled his eyes in feigned boredom, his lip curling in a cold smirk. "She's an assassin," he explained patiently, as though speaking to a child. "I don't know her name. No-one does."

Miller hesitated, and Bodie saw uncertainty in his face. "Who is she?" he insisted.

Before Bodie could reply, Maggie moaned, moving her head slowly as consciousness returned. She grimaced as she ran a tongue over her teeth, swallowing with a look of distaste. She tried to move and the chains clanked, causing her to open one bleary eye to consider her situation.

Her gaze fell on Miller, and recognition dawned.

"Anton Dubcek," she said, her voice dry and brittle.

Miller gave a start of surprise. "Who the hell is she?" he hissed. The look on the man's face gave Bodie and Doyle their first glimmer of hope for what felt like a very long time.

"She's the Magpie," Bodie replied, unable to suppress his grin.

A wolfish smile spread over her face. Her skin glowed almost translucent, pale with nausea.

"Hello, Dubcek," she said, her voice stronger. "I hope you're better at protecting this guy than you were the last one."

Dubcek/Miller swore under his breath in a language neither Bodie nor Doyle understood.

"Miller." Adams' voice was sharp, startling the man. "What is it?"

"An intruder," Miller replied, gathering his wits about him once more.

Adams padded down the steps to the cellar. He wore only lounge pants and slippers, confirming Doyle and Bodie's suspicions that it was night. The cool air of the cellar brought goosebumps to his bare chest. He ignored the two men, fixing his gaze on the prone female manacled to the shabby mattress.

Adams' tongue flicked out, snake-like, to wet his lips, almost as though he tasted the air. Doyle suppressed a shiver as he recognised the gleam in Adams' eyes as he examined the woman.

Maggie recognised the predatory look as well, and tried to curl her limbs together in self-defence. The instinctive reaction made Adams smile cruelly.

"What kind of intruder?" His voice rasped, tight with lust.

Miller stepped forward, surprising Doyle and Bodie with his almost protective stance.

"She's a professional assassin," he explained. "You shouldn't consider any other business with her."

Adams gaze flashed angrily. "Don't tell me what to do," he snapped.

Miller shrugged. "Suit yourself, but if she breaks your neck while you try screwing her, it's your own fault."

Adams' eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Do you know her?" he asked sharply.

Miller hesitated, looking down at Maggie before replying. "I know _of_ her," he replied truthfully. "I know what she's capable of."

Adams crouched down on his heels and examined Maggie from a safe distance. Her gaze held his unflinchingly, no sign of drowsiness in her now. Despite the chains, she radiated hostility, and a warning that even Bodie and Doyle could sense.

Adams smiled slowly. "I have access to drugs that could so paralyse you, you couldn't lift a finger to stop me," he promised her in a silken hiss.

"I'd rather be under general anaesthetic, if it's all the same," she snarled.

Adams laughed and reached out to stroke her hair. She twisted out of his reach, but he grabbed her pony tail, twisting it around his hand and pulling her head back. Her gasp of pain brought a smile to his lips.

"Oh no. I want you to feel everything," he whispered. "Every. Little. Thing." He punctuated each word with another vicious tug of her hair.

"Every _little_ thing?" she replied mockingly.

Adams' face froze. He released her hair, then back-handed her viciously, watching her sprawl on the floor from the force of the blow. Not satisfied with that show of force, he kicked her sharply in the ribs, knocking the breath from her.

"Oh you'll feel it, bitch," he snarled. He turned his back on them all and stalked out of the cellar.

"You too." Miller dismissed Jefferson, watching as the big man left the cellar.

When both men had gone, Miller crouched down beside Magpie. Doyle and Bodie watched curiously as he reached out and grasped Maggie by the chin, forcing her to look at him.

"Your taste in employers hasn't improved," she said.

Miller examined her face carefully. "It was you, wasn't it?" he asked softly, scanning her expression for any tell-tale sign. "You are the Magpie."

She smiled coldly. "Professional courtesy, Dubcek. Client confidentiality. You know how it is."

"Yes," he nodded. He stood up and looked down at her. He sighed. "And for the sake of professional courtesy, I do not want to see what he will do to you if you provoke him, Magpie."

She considered his quiet words. "Doesn't take much to provoke him," she said at last. "If you didn't want that, you shouldn't have locked me up like this. Gives him ideas."

"Jefferson is used to his - preferences," he admitted, his lips twisting in distaste.

She nodded ruefully. "That's what I thought."

He turned and walked away, pausing at the steps.

"You could tell me who sent you," he said.

She smiled. "I could," she agreed. "But we both know I won't."

He nodded regretfully, his pace slow and steady up the stairs. The light clicked off, and they were plunged into gloomy darkness again. From where Bodie and Doyle sat, Maggie was little more than a dark figure in the shadows.

"Who invited you?" Doyle snapped when all was silent once more.

"I just thought I'd gate crash," she replied dryly. "Couldn't let you have all the fun."

"So what brings you here?" Bodie asked quietly. Doyle could see Bodie's dark blue eyes glinting as he watched the cellar door, cautious of any eavesdropping.

Magpie was a dim figure in the gloom, more apparent as their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. She could be seen as a patch of black amongst the grey.

"Process of elimination," she replied, equally cautious in her reply.

"I thought you were retired," Doyle said.

Her chains clinked together, a silvery noise in the darkness. "Can't keep a good woman down."

"How do you know Miller – Dubcek?" Doyle asked.

The chains rustled again as she shrugged. "Miller now, is it?" she said. "He changes his name more often than some people change their underwear."

"Who was Dubcek?" Bodie asked, not to be distracted by her flippancy.

"Same kind of business as me," she replied, falling into her factual, almost bored, tone as she related the information. "Except while I'm more the extermination side, he's more protection and information-gathering."

"Security and torture," Bodie translated, with a curl to his lip.

She nodded at his accurate assessment. "In a nutshell. I killed one of his employers. I didn't kill him when I could have. I knocked him out instead."

"And he never saw you?" Doyle asked.

She shook her head. "Never. Never laid eyes on me."

"That's one hell of a reputation you've got," Doyle said.

She grinned, her teeth gleaming white in the dim light. "Thoroughly deserved, I assure you."

"And they say, 'those who can't, teach'," Bodie drawled. "Who the hell taught you?"

"Who do you think?" she said lightly, her voice teasing. "Macklin."

Doyle choked. "You're kidding!" he said when he had stopped coughing.

"Not at all," she insisted solemnly. "Four years in Hong Kong. Most of them spent with Macklin."

"Bloody hell." Bodie wheezed with laughter.

"Cowley sent you to Macklin?" Doyle asked, as the logic of the old man's decision dawned on him. Send her far away from England, send her to a man he could trust.

"Well, the alternative was Barry Martin, so it worked out for the best," she said.

"Bloody hell," Doyle breathed. "I can't imagine Macklin baby-sitting."

Magpie stared into the darkness. Neither man could see her well enough to see the reflective look in her eyes, or the smile playing on her lips.

"He didn't baby-sit. He just treated me like a human being," she said softly.

Something about her tone pricked their curiosity. "What was he like?" Bodie asked, catching the warmth in her voice.

Her eyes gleamed. "Brian Macklin was like diamond," she said, her voice a soft caress in the darkness. "Hard, strong, unbreakable. And – oh - so bright." There was a wistfulness in her voice. "Flawless."

"Well, he's flawed now," Doyle said harshly.

Maggie was silent for a few seconds. They couldn't see how her expression hardened, but they heard it in her voice. "Diamonds can have flaws," she said at last. "But they're still brilliant."

"Maybe that was the problem," Bodie offered. "Over-confident, over-worked. Taking on too much. After a while, even the best make mistakes."

"Maybe," Maggie agreed. "I wouldn't write Brian Macklin off, though. No matter what. He may have taught you everything you know, but I can guarantee - he's never taught you all _he_ knows."

# # # # # # #

Macklin had filled his day with chores, keeping his body busy to try to distract his mind. He was as quick-tempered as Doyle, as capable of vicious retribution as Bodie, but Macklin knew how to control that heat and anger. He was master of his rage, able to keep it coiled inside him until he needed it, until he could unleash it in a controlled burst. Never blinded by it, always clear.

So he didn't pace the house in his frustration, or allow his concern to ferment and fester inside him. With his usual resolute self-control, he kept himself occupied, until the sun sank down on the horizon, and he finally allowed himself to think. The record played through the stereo loud enough to surround him with the sweeping emotions of the music, but not as loud as the single thought occupying his mind.

Maggie.

He lay back on the sofa, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He settled his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, listening to the music.

He recalled each moment with her with perfect clarity, calling forth each precious memory and savouring it, before carefully wrapping it up and replacing it in his mind, like someone poring over priceless jewels in a treasure chest.

He breathed slowly and steadily, the music merging with the memories. He could recall the taste of her, her warm skin under his lips, her mouth soft and demanding on his

_Casta Diva..._

Maria Callas began the haunting aria, the Druid priestess baring her soul to the Moon.

He remembered a warm summer night when they had played their own version of hide and seek through secluded woodlands. Silvery moonlight had wove through the trees like smoke, and he had never known whether he had caught her fair and square, or whether she had allowed him to. With his arms around her, feeling her body pressed against his as she urged him to claim his prize, he hadn't cared.

_Ah bello a me ritorna_

_Del fido amor primiero_

_Ah, beautiful one, return to me_

_Return to your first true love_

Holding her in the dead of the night while she muttered and cursed in her sleep, stroking her gently and breathing words of love against her skin as he guarded her dreams.

_E contro il mondo intiero_

_Difesa a te saro_

_I'll protect you from the entire world_

Watching her fight, movements quick and fluid, like a snake striking. Years of ballet combined with street fighting skills and martial arts. He knew what it had taken for her to reach that level of expertise; he knew how difficult it was to make it look so easy.

_Ah riendi ancora qual eri allora_

_Quando il cor ti diedi allora_

_Ah, return as you once were_

_When I gave you my heart_

She had to know he loved her, that he always had. He had married Eloise a scant two years after Maggie had left. He had hoped that the exquisitely correct Eloise would make him forget the dark street urchin. He had been a fool. He had picked a woman who could not possibly have reminded him of Maggie in any way. His wedding day had felt like a funeral. All he had done was mourn a woman he had lost.

_Ah riendi a me_

_Return to me_

There were lots of things of which she was capable. But despite the darkness in his heart where his jealousy lay, he knew she wouldn't betray him. She wouldn't run into the arms of another man to take revenge on him.

Not even Doyle? The blackness inside him tormented him with the thought.

Not even Doyle, his reason resolutely replied. If she was going to end their relationship, she would tell him. And then he would have to try to change her mind. Not an easy prospect, but he knew she loved him. If nothing else, the pain he had sensed in her as she ran from him and Eloise confirmed it.

The record finished, the silence now a welcome presence. She would return, if only to bawl and rail at him. And if she didn't, he would find her, and pin her down while he explained. They had lost too many years through a misunderstanding before. He would not allow them to lose any more. The years they had spent apart had held too many risks and dangers. They could have both died time after time, and never had this chance. He wouldn't let that happen again. He wouldn't let them risk it.

Maggie Draven would have to learn that, stubborn and ingenious as she was, she was no match for Brian Macklin.

# # # # # # #

Cowley sat in his study, glasses perched on the end of his nose. He tried not to look at the clock or his watch again. He knew it was barely a minute since he had last looked.

She was late.

She was never late, never missed a call in. She was as smooth and reliable as clockwork. It was how she made her name. There was no room in her for second best or half measures. If she couldn't do a job, she wouldn't take it on; once she had committed herself, it was already a certainty.

02.37 - Cowley did not need to see a clock face to know the time. He forced himself not to look, ignoring the primal urge to look anyway, to be sure, to laugh at himself when he realised he was wrong.

He wasn't wrong. She was 40 minutes late for her check in.

She could be dead already, lying in a crumpled heap, blood oozing from a bullet or knife wound.

He felt a yawning pit drop open in his stomach at the thought.

He reached for the telephone, mildly amazed to find his hand wasn't shaking.

At least he knew where she would be, he reasoned. Alive or dead.

# # # # # # #

"How did you get so clumsy?" Doyle accused. He couldn't quite see the dirty look she gave him, but he could imagine.

"Someone treated the window frame with knock-out drops," she replied. "I thought it was a splinter. Next thing, I wake up here."

"Adams has got another pet as well as your friend Miller," Bodie explained. "A poisonous little minx. Goes by the name of Mai. Know her, do you?"

She shook her head. "It's not like they send out newsletters, you know," she replied.

"Well, you're back in the amateur ranks now, aren't you?" Bodie said with a grin.

"Amateurs built the Ark. Professionals built Titanic," she replied archly.

"I see you inherited Cowley's taste for clichés," Doyle said.

"Oh, I hope not," she replied fervently, raising a smile from the two men.

"Do you think professional courtesy will keep you in one piece?" Doyle asked at last, the memory of Adams' hungry look and the vulnerability of her situation coming back to him.

"Ah. No," she replied solemnly. "He may regret it; he may warn me about it, he may find it distasteful. But if Adams orders him to hold me down while he does it, Dubcek will. He's a professional."

"Great," Bodie muttered. "Not much use there."

"No," she agreed regretfully. "It's going to be a waiting game, I think. Stay alive until the cavalry arrives."

She listened to the wheezing breathing of the two men, and kept her other thoughts to herself.

# # # # # # #

Macklin leapt to his feet, instantly awake. He stared at the ringing telephone, a sudden sense of foreboding creeping up his spine. He glanced at the clock. 02.58am. His unease increased.

"Hello?" He answered the telephone with a neutral tone of voice; there was no sign of the hammering of his heart.

"Brian."

He heard something in Cowley's voice; something that hadn't been there the previous night.

"What's happened?" he demanded.

Cowley hesitated. The clipped, precise voice did not deserve any false hopes or sugar-coated version of events.

"I'm sorry, Brian," Cowley began. Macklin heard the genuine regret in the man's voice, and gripped the telephone so hard the fragile plastic began to creak.

"Tell me," he insisted, his voice calm despite the raging desperation within him.

"Maggie – didn't make her check in," Cowley said slowly and carefully, each word a weight more than he could stand.

"Alive or dead?" Macklin demanded coldly.

"Brian -"

"Alive or dead?" he repeated, the curt Sandhurst voice rising in volume.

Cowley sighed. "We don't know," he admitted.

"Do you know where she would be?" Macklin continued inexorably. His mind turned over his options swiftly.

"Yes. She was to break into a house near Dorney Reach. She never checked in after that. We assume that whatever happened, happened there."

Macklin felt only coldness inside. There was no time for anything else; it would have to wait for afterwards.

"Understood," he said.

"I'm calling in my men from other operations," Cowley said, giving his friend the only hope he had to give.

"I'll be there in four hours," Macklin said, dismissing the offer of hope.

"Brian -" Cowley began again.

"Four hours, Cowley," Macklin snarled, his coldness temporarily forgotten. "And pray to whatever God will listen to you that it's quick enough."

Macklin put the telephone down before Cowley could argue.

He paused and took a deep breath. She could be dead, but he would act as though she were alive until he found out otherwise. Else he wasn't sure he could function.

If she were dead...

He shuddered, then forced himself into action.

If she was dead, none of it mattered. If she was dead, nothing would ever matter again.

# # # # # # #

Maggie tried to stretch her limbs to relieve the threatening cramp. "Okay," she said. "What about – Cowley, Murphy, Macklin?"

Killing time, distracting them from what could happen next. It amazed her the selection of time-wasting notions they could come up with.

"I'd snog Murphy," Bodie said, a little too quickly. Doyle grinned, then winced at the pain a simple smile caused.

Maggie giggled. "Okay," she said, making notes for future teasing potential. "Who would you marry?"

Bodie paused, giving the question careful consideration. "It would have to be Cowley, 'cus no way could I live with Macklin."

"So you'd murder Macklin?" Maggie affected offended hurt. "Why? What's he ever done to you?"

"What's he not done?" Bodie retorted defensively. "In fact, you've seen what he's done!"

"Still," she sniffed,

"Alright, what about you?" Doyle asked, his voice rough and rasping despite his smile.

"Can't marry anyone," she said with a sigh. "I'm a dead woman, remember? It's technically necrophilia."

"Which makes you technically a necrophiliac," Bodie crowed in delight.

Doyle glared at him. "Okay, enough of that, thank you," he said primly.

"Cowley's almost family, so he's out. Snog Murphy, I suppose," Maggie continued thoughtfully, ignoring him.

"Which means you'd murder Macklin as well," Bodie accused her triumphantly.

She gave a short laugh. "There are times when I could," she said, thinking back to a ruined holiday and a blonde woman. It seemed so long ago.

The playful tone in her voice had gone, replaced by something wistful. Doyle met Bodie's look, the two men exchanging a silent conversation. With Maggie, there was always an undercurrent of meaning to her words. Sometimes you had to piece things together before you got the whole picture. Doyle was getting the picture, as was Bodie.

"Must be love," Doyle said softly.

They heard her breath catch in a laugh. "Yeah. Must be," she agreed ruefully.

# # # # # # #

They were awake before the cellar door clanged open. Despite their attempts to keep their spirits up, not one of them remained convinced they would be rescued, either in time or at all. Their condition now strongly suggested they were unlikely to escape under their own steam. They were stiff, their limbs unwieldy and unresponsive after too long in one position. Both Bodie and Doyle breathed more laboriously, each breath ending with a subtle rattle that none of them could ignore any more. Bodie's natural pallor had a tinge of grey that wasn't just his five o'clock shadow. Doyle's face was unnaturally pale, and both men had a sheen of sweat on their faces that had nothing to do with the temperature of the cellar.

Mai slinked, cat-like, down the steps, Miller behind her, his face a mask. In contrast, Mai almost glowed with pleasure.

Mai crouched down beside Bodie, her dark almond eyes huge in her elfin face. Her tongue darted out, running over her full lips hungrily. She reached out with one hand to gently trail her long fingernails over Bodie's face, catching his bottom lip and tugging at it as she slowly stroked downwards.

Miller watched, his distaste evident in his cold expression.

"Do either of you have anything to say?" he asked, his strange accented voice echoing around the cellar.

"Nothing springs to mind," Doyle replied nastily.

Bodie's eyes rolled upwards to fix Miller with an insubordinate look. "I can think of a few," he said. "All ending in 'off'."

Miler pursed his lips. "You may disapprove of my methods," he said. "But I assure you, I'm quite clean compared to Mai."

As though to demonstrate, Mai produced a padded pouch from her pocket. Unrolled, it revealed three hypodermics. She stroked them with an avaricious look on her face.

"I wouldn't." Magpie spoke from her corner, affecting a lazy disinterest in her tone. Mai glared at her with fury in her dark eyes.

"Wouldn't what?" Miller enquired archly.

Magpie rolled her head from one shoulder to another, trying to ease some of the tension in her cramped muscles. She gave a sigh. "It's all the same to me, of course. But I thought you wanted these guys to talk."

"This will make them talk," Mai snarled, her voice as poisonous as her toys.

Maggie smiled slowly. "Oh dear, she's really not up to your usual standard, is she?" she said nastily.

Mai hissed, but Miller watched her curiously. "What's your point?" he asked, an amused look on his face.

"Well, I don't know what Fu Manchu's little sister here has got in those phials," she said, her lip curling as she aimed to be as obnoxious as possible. "But you only have to listen to their breathing to know they're on the edge of pneumonia. Whatever she's got in there is going to be a relaxant of some kind. Sodium thiopental or some derivative. It will slow their respiration further. Inhibit their respiration any more and pneumonia will have them inside an hour. Even if they wanted to talk, they wouldn't be able to."

"Thank you for your professional advice," Doyle snarled at her. He knew she was trying to protect them both; it was paramount to maintain the pretence that they were strangers, and on opposite sides.

She shrugged as much as her chains would allow. "I hate to see sloppy workmanship," she said smoothly. "And your little girlfriend strikes me as nothing more than an incompetent amateur."

Mai leapt to her feet, flying across the room to slap Maggie hard across the face. Blood trickled from her lip when she turned back to fix Mai with an insolent smile.

Miller considered the two men carefully, noting their pallor and the hiss of their breathing. "She has a point," he conceded, more that willing to stop Mai having her way from sheer spitefulness than any concern over the two men.

Mai unleashed her anger on the captive Magpie, reaching to grab her hair in one hand, forcing her knee into the small of her back as she wrenched Maggie's head back viciously by her hair. Maggie winced, feigning pain before the hold had actually pulled her spine back more than was comfortable. Even so, stiffened joints and muscles complained at the rough treatment. It would not do to let Mai know the extent of her flexibility; she may be able to exploit it later.

"That's enough." Adams' voice was quiet, but it carried through the cellar, stopping Mai before she landed any more blows on Magpie. Mai released her reluctantly, roughing pushing her head away before standing and stepping away from her.

"So nice of you to join us," Bodie drawled, trying to divert Adams' attention away from Maggie.

The sight of the woman, lying prone and defenceless, had a strange effect on Adams. Everyone in the cellar sensed his hunger. Maggie stared up at him, hatred in her eyes, and made a decision. She may not be able to stop him, but she didn't have to be conscious when he raped her.

"I bet you were a real Mummy's boy," she sneered, determined to goad him into a position where she could fight back, or at least where he would hit her rather than rape her. "What happened – did she dress you up like a little girl? Make you pretend to be the daughter she never had?"

Adams went pale with fury. "Shut up," he snarled, fists curled by his sides. "Shut up!"

"You can only get your rocks off when the woman can't fight back. What kind of insecurities and inadequacies are you compensating for?"

Adams reached down and yanked her head back viciously, almost ripping the hair from her scalp. She tried to control her wince, but he pulled her head back further than Mai had done, arching her spine against his knee painfully.

Madness flared in his eyes. "I said shut up," he snarled, spittle flecking the corners of his mouth.

She saw sparks of light and a dimming edge of blackness to her vision. With her throat bared and bent back, she could hardly breathe. The need for air burned in her lungs, and a strange sense of detachment filled her mind. She was losing consciousness. Panic filled her eyes.

Adams leaned down to bring her face next to hers, cheek to cheek. "Oh no, lady. You don't trick me like that," he hissed into her ear.

He released her abruptly, standing over her with a triumphant snarl contorting his face. She gasped, instinctively dragging in huge lungfuls of air to compensate for the deprivation. He watched her, her mouth open as she breathed heavily, her chest heaving.

"You're a sick bastard," she croaked, pausing for breath between each word.

He turned his back on her, reaching into his jacket pocket to produce a folded piece of paper. He opened it up and held it out towards Miller. Miller did not show any reaction to Maggie's treatment. He took the paper, holding it open and flicking through the three pages.

"I want to know who they know," Adams said in a menacing growl. He turned back to Maggie to deliver a swift kick to her ribs, smiling at her stifled gasp of pain.

"What about the drugs?" Mai asked, an unholy light in her dark eyes.

Adams regarded the two men carefully. "She's probably right. We'll save those for later." He looked from one pale face to the other. "And fetch some blankets. We can't have them taking the honourable way out."

"What about the woman?" Mai stepped towards Maggie again, baring her teeth in a predatory smile.

"No-one touches her but me." Adams' voice was flat, brooking no argument.

Mai's head flashed up, glaring at him in fury at his denial of her prize. "But who sent her?" she insisted.

Adams smiled slowly as he looked at Magpie. "Oh she'll tell me. Afterwards. Because by then, she'll do anything to stop me taking her again."

Maggie glared at him but could not bring an insult to her bloodied lips. Adams smiled in triumph before leaving them again.

Mai stared down at her, hands curling and uncurling by her sides. It was evident she wanted nothing more than to rip into Maggie, but Adams' order prevented her.

"I will watch," she promised in a hiss. "When he takes you, makes you beg him to stop. I will watch."

Maggie turned away from her, too tired to argue.

"Fetch blankets," Miller commanded. Mai glared at him, refusal hovering on her lips, but Miller's blank expression brooked no argument. She strode from the cellar angrily, the door slamming behind her.

"I thought you were smarter than that," Miller said coolly.

Maggie looked up at him. "Thought you'd had enough of drug dealing pimps with delusions of grandeur," she replied. Her voice sounded clipped and breathless, and Doyle wondered how much damage that final kick had done to an already weakened abdomen.

"I grew accustomed to a certain standard of living," Miller replied, a rueful smile on his lean face.

"Don't get too cocky," she said softly, and the pain was too evident in the way her voice caught and broke. "Because if he touches me, I'll kill him and anyone who gets in my way."

Miller gave a heavy sigh and turned away from her. "Magpie, if he touches you, there won't be enough of you left to kill anyone. Not even yourself."

Miller positioned himself where he could see all three prisoners, leaning against the wall with his arms folded in front of him. In one hand, he held the list Adams had given him. A thoughtful look clouded the lean, angular face,

"My employer allows himself to be distracted too easily from matters of more importance," he said evenly. "It is not productive."

"Your employer is a psycho," Doyle snarled, his voice rising in anger.

Miller smiled coldly. "My, my," he drawled. "Such temper. And here we were, thinking you were both at death's door." He nodded to Maggie. "Very clever,"

"Don't know what you mean," Bodie muttered with careful nonchalance.

Miller's wolfish smile widened. "I haven't dismissed the idea that you know each other," he said, watching them for any reaction. Bodie looked bored, biding his time with angry patience; Magpie barely registered his presence; and Doyle – Doyle glared at him with such vicious fury that Miller smiled.

He shrugged, pushing himself off the wall with a smooth motion and straightening his jacket neatly. He looked up at the sound of Mai returning. She shot Miller an angry look, stalking past him and throwing a blanket to Doyle, and another to Bodie. She eyed Miller with sullen insolence.

"No blanket for the lady?" Miller raised an eyebrow mockingly.

"She doesn't need one," Mai hissed.

"She doesn't want one," Maggie snarled. Bode and Doyle eyed her carefully. She shook her head imperceptibly, understanding their unspoken offer. They settled the blankets around themselves as best they could, grateful for the warmth.

Miller turned his mocking gaze on Mai. "Haven't you got someone else to torment?"

"There's no-one here but -"

"Shut up!" Miller snapped before she could finish. He glared at her before glancing at Bodie and Doyle. Both men recognised the importance of what she had been about to let slip. Mai flushed, embarrassment turning to anger as she realised her mistake. Without a word, she left the cellar, ignoring Miller.

Doyle eyed Miller cautiously. It was a sorry state of affairs when you had to consider which psycho was the best to be left alone with.

Miller unfolded the list and scanned it, a prim look on his angular face.

"Now we're sitting comfortably," he said, in a soft, sinister voice. "Let us begin."

# # # # # # #

Macklin leaned against the wall in Cowley's office, long legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded precisely across his broad chest. Cowley eyed him as he entered. Macklin did not look like a man who had driven for four hours in the middle of the night. He looked calm, poised; ready for anything.

"So what was this 'small job' you sent her on?" Macklin asked, his voice steady. Only someone who knew him well – and there were precious few he allowed that close – would recognise the anger lurking in the depths of his steel-blue eyes.

Cowley pursed his lips tightly, pausing long enough to hang up his coat before taking his seat behind his desk. Macklin watched him, the twitch in his jaw the only sign of the tight rein he was holding on his temper. He was too experienced to fall for Cowley's tricks. The old man expected this authoritarian silence to curb Macklin's temper. It wouldn't work. Cowley was devious, but Macklin could be patient when he had to be.

Although Cowley could test the patience of a saint, Macklin thought as he watched him remove glasses from his jacket pocket and carefully perch them halfway down his nose.

Cowley considered the folder he held in his hands, apparently ignoring Macklin, but very aware of the brooding presence in the room. Macklin may look all calm efficiency, but there was a dangerous under-current that Cowley had to consider.

Cowley held the file out towards Macklin, who stepped closer to take it from him.

"Mark Adams," Cowley said as Macklin considered the contents of the file. "Entrepreneur. Art dealer. Fond of the high life and High Society."

"And his connections?" 

"Filthy," Cowley replied with prim distaste. "Whatever a corrupt politician desires, Adams will provide, and pander to it. He has a stable of politicians and senior civil servants in his back pocket."

"And what does this have to do with Maggie?" Macklin's voice was calm and detached, but there was still that twitch in his muscles. The man was primed for action; Cowley recognised the signs.

"Bodie and Doyle were undercover, closest to Adams' operations. They went missing over 36 hours ago."

"So why send Maggie?" Macklin's voice was quiet, his attention fixed on the documents he held.

"All available agents are out on this, gathering evidence against Adams. There was no-one else to send."

Macklin stared at him over the top of the buff file he held. "And you manoeuvred her into volunteering."

Cowley removed his glasses, fixing Macklin with a hard stare. Macklin did not flinch. "Are you suggesting Maggie was not up to it?" Cowley asked, his voice silken.

Macklin gave a slow smile; he was too wily to fall into that trap. "It's not a question of ability. It's about suitability," he barked. "Maggie is an assassin, not a field agent."

"She's a _retired_ assassin, Brian," Cowley replied, with emphasis.

"You know as well as I do that means very little."

"Next you'll be saying I shouldn't send a woman to do a man's job," Cowley snapped.

Macklin made an angry sound, turning away from Cowley abruptly, his hands on his hips. He gave a heavy sigh, turning his head back over his shoulder to glare at Cowley. "You know me better than that," he growled. "Man or woman, makes no difference."

"Not even if it's your woman?"

Macklin met the hard grey gaze without hesitation. "I think I'm more aware than any of you exactly what she's capable of," Macklin replied quietly. "She wouldn't have volunteered if she didn't think she could do it." Anger burned suddenly in the steel-blue eyes. "But she wouldn't have volunteered at all if you hadn't put the thought there."

Cowley sat back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him. "What exactly are you angry about, Brian? That I used the resources available to me? Or that it's Maggie?"

Macklin threw the folder across the desk to land in front of Cowley. "I'm angry that you sent her to investigate a man with half a dozen allegations of violent rape against him, all of which were thrown out or not pursued, probably due to his connections," he snarled. "I'm angry, George, because you over-stretched your resources and had no contingency plans for any agent losing their cover." He leaned on the desk to fix Cowley with a baleful glare. "But most of all," he added in a calmer, quieter voice that was even more menacing. "I'm angry that this whole conversation may be moot, because Maggie may be dead already."

"And if you hadn't argued, she wouldn't have been here," Cowley snapped angrily.

Macklin's glare froze. He stood up, looking away from Cowley briefly. "We didn't argue," he said quietly.

Cowley's anger faded. "Aye, well," he said softly. "That's what she said as well."

Macklin sat down in the chair opposite Cowley. "Eloise turned up on the doorstep," he admitted.

Cowley raised his eyebrows. "Did she, by God."

"Pregnant," Macklin added.

Cowley rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Aye, that would do it," he agreed,

Macklin stared at him, the steel-blue eyes hard. "What are we going to do?" he asked, his voice firm, confident.

Cowley eyed him speculatively. Macklin would ignore the possibility that Maggie was dead until he was presented with evidence of it. Cowley knew the man held his emotions in tight control, but even the most professional of men had their breaking point, and Macklin had met his four years before in Hong Kong.

"I've got one man coming in this morning. I've called him off his assignment."

"Who?"

"6-2. David Murphy." Macklin immediately recalled the tall, dark haired agent, all lanky strength and long limbs. Laid back, but appearances were deceptive. Murphy was a hard man when necessary. A good man. Macklin nodded approvingly.

"And me," he added.

Cowley watched him carefully. "And what do you expect to be able to do?"

Macklin met the cold grey eyes without hesitation. "Whatever it damn well takes," he replied.

# # # # # # #

Doyle was fed up with Bodie. The constant litany of _"I'm sorry, Sir, I cannot answer that question"_ flayed his nerves as much as Miller's torture. Bodie couldn't help it, of course. SAS training – the best in the world. And it produced the best soldiers in the world.

Still, it was starting to grate.

He tried to focus on Maggie, wondering what thoughts were going through her mind; wondering whether there was anything to his growing suspicions about her and Macklin.

Bodie would never let him live it down – dumped for Macklin. He'd be cracking jokes about it for weeks.

Always assuming they got out of here, of course.

But then Miller left Bodie, and started again on Doyle, and Doyle was far too busy to spend any more time thinking.

# # # # # # #

Bodie breathed heavily, the rattle in his chest no better, but thankfully no worse either. Time to catalogue the positives – he wouldn't die of pneumonia just yet. While Miller was vicious, he was also thorough and precise, and the damage wasn't going to kill him. Mai had kept her poisonous little hands off him. And Miller had stopped hurting him. All positives.

But then Miller started on Doyle, and the positives seemed harder to find.

# # # # # # #

Miller was not interested in her, and Maggie was more grateful than she would comfortably admit.

She wanted to close her eyes to the torture, but somehow it felt like abandoning them. She had to witness each careful blow, each physical insult inflicted with deadly precision. She hated torture. She hated torturers. While the distinction between what she had been and what Miller was may be as apples and pears to an outsider, to her they were worlds apart.

Miller did not take pleasure from the actual pain, but he gained obvious satisfaction from doing his job to the best of his ability. She tried not to think of her father, but the similarities were obvious. She was chained up now, her movements limited. Then she had been pinned to the floor by full-grown men. It had been over half a lifetime and a whole universe ago, but she still remembered.

She still remembered what had happened next, which led inevitably to what would happen soon.

She had got over the worst of her demons, and memories did not paralyse her as they once had. Macklin had cured her of that years before. She was not prone to melodrama or flights of fantasy – but she was honest. And she didn't know whether she would survive it all again. Her stomach lurched as her possible future flashed into her mind. Raped, beaten, abused, murdered. Dumped in a land fill or by the side of the road. Maybe never to be seen again.

Never to see Macklin again.

And what would he think, she wondered? Would he think she had simply run away? Changing identity and returning to her old life? Or would he see her body on a mortuary slab, and know what had happened to her, each bruise and mark telling the story? What would he do then?

She had been angry that he hadn't told her he was married; angry to have found out in such a humiliating way. To find a pregnant wife on her doorstop a mere four months into a relationship she had envisaged lasting the rest of her life had been more than just a slap in the face. A four- or five- month pregnant wife raised another question. But did she really believe Macklin didn't love her? She could never credit him with such dishonesty.

And she may never have the chance to put it right. The next time he saw her, she could be dead. And despite all her fears, somehow the thought of Macklin alone caused her the most anguish.

# # # # # # #

Cowley, Macklin and Murphy stood over the blueprints to Adams' sprawling mansion, carefully considering all options and possibilities.

"I've had a watch on the place since Maggie missed her check in," Cowley said, turning to flick through meticulous notes. "No comings or goings reported since 3.30am that night."

"So either they got her out before then, or she's still there," Murphy ventured.

"If she's alive, she's likely to be with Doyle and Bodie," Macklin said. "And no traffic from the house suggests they're being held there."

Cowley's sharp gaze fell on Macklin. "If Maggie's alive, that's where she'll be."

Macklin looked up at him. "She's alive," he said quietly. He returned his attention to the plans. "We go in and find whoever is there. Worry about the rest later."

"Who's in there? Do we know?" Murphy asked.

Cowley slid a packet of photographs across the table towards them. Murphy spread them out. Adams, Mai, Miller and Jefferson stared back at them from various surveillance photographs.

"Jefferson – main muscle," Murphy reported, pointing to the looming presence. "Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but loyal."

"And the woman?" Macklin asked.

Murphy shrugged. "She follows Adams everywhere, but they don't sleep together. She's called Mai, that's all I know. Gossip among the staff is that no-one would survive a night with her."

"And this man?" Cowley pointed to Dubcek/Miller.

"I know him," Macklin growled. "Stefan Ibranovich, Anton Dubcek, Karl Streicher. Or any of another dozen names."

"An assassin?" Cowley asked.

Macklin shrugged. "More an enforcer, I suppose," he suggested. "He's employed rather than taking on individual contracts." He tapped his index finger against the image of Miller. "And Maggie knows him," he added. "Nine years ago, Miller was working for a Columbian drug baron in South America. He went by the name of Anton Dubcek then. His boss was Lucas Ramirez." He met Cowley's gaze with a wolfish smile that held no humour. "Dubcek was head of security. Maggie assassinated Ramirez right underneath Dubcek's nose. He may not know what she looks like, but he knows Magpie all right."

"Will that help, do you think?" Murphy asked.

Macklin sighed heavily, running his hand through his short hair, leaving it dishevelled and unruly. Sunlight glinted off the sandy blond hair, giving flashes of fire amid the dark gold. "Haven't a clue," he admitted. "Just have to hope she could exploit it somehow."

"And Adams." Murphy pointed to the tall blond man, his arrogant expression masked by sunglasses in the photograph. Murphy shook his head. "I've heard stories about him," he said darkly. "He likes to play rough, and the more they fight, the more he likes it."

Cowley caught the twitch in Macklin's jaw as he tensed. "If there's one thing of which we may be certain," Macklin growled coldly and calmly despite the anger in his eyes. "It's that she will fight."

Murphy felt the tension in the room. An intelligent man, he watched and listened more than he spoke. And he was observant.

"The sooner we get in, the better," he said firmly. "Before any more of Adams' goons turn up." He looked from Cowley to Macklin, his handsome features set in an unreadable mask. He knew what was said about Macklin – that he had lost his nerve. But he was still more than capable of ripping hardened field agents apart within minutes, and his marksmanship was second to none. Macklin filled tough agents with dread and awe in equal measure. But there was something else coiled in that broad, powerful frame. Murphy sensed it. Macklin was dangerous at the best of times, but right now, Murphy would not give anyone good odds of standing between Macklin and his target. Not now, nerve or no nerve. And it would be a foolhardy man who looked at Macklin now and suggested he had lost his edge

"I need Adams alive," Cowley barked, noting the predatory look on Macklin's face as he stared at the photograph of the man.

Macklin glared at him. "Then you'd better hope Adams plays by your rules," he snapped.

# # # # # # #

Miller entered Adams' study, his face set in the familiar mask. Only a careful observer would notice the signs of anger and frustration.

"Well?" Adams barked, not deigning to lift his head from the papers he perused.

"Nothing," Miller reported curtly.

Adams flung his pen down amid the papers strewn over his desk. He finally looked up to glare at Miller.

"Nothing?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Miller repeated firmly. He met Adams' furious gaze unflinchingly.

Adams' eyes narrowed. "Are you ceasing to be useful to me, Miller?" he asked in a silken drawl.

Miller gave a bored look, unimpressed by the hidden threat. Adams had been the one pushing for quick results. Miller had no objections to inflicting whatever damage it took to get someone to talk, but he hated working in these conditions. He did not deign to reply to Adams' implication.

Adams leaned back in his leather chair, rocking gently in the padded seat as he thought. He looked out of the leaded windows of his study across the grounds of his estate.

"Separate them," he ordered. "You take one, give Mai the other. Alone, they might not be so stubborn."

Miller gave a curt nod of understanding. "Separate rooms, or separate houses entirely?" he asked.

"Rooms," Adams replied. "Get them both out of the cellar, but don't move them far. I'm not risking anyone seeing us move one from here."

Out of the cellar. Miller considered the feral gleam in Adams' eyes.

"And the Magpie?" he asked.

Adams smiled slowly. "Leave her. She's no concern of yours."

Miller left the room quietly. His only thought was that it would be no honourable end for the Magpie.

# # # # # # #

Miller and Jefferson ignored the angry protests of both CI5 men as they were summarily bound hand and foot and carried unceremoniously from the cellar. Their complaints were stifled with gags, held in place by cruel leather belts. Bodie grunted as the big man hefted him over one shoulder, bruised and cracked ribs complaining at the rough treatment. Blackness threatened to claim him as he fought to remain conscious while he was jostled up stairs and into a small attic room. His vision blurred when he was thrown onto a narrow cot. His limbs were chained to the metal frame before he had fought off the rising nausea caused by his pain.

He opened his eyes when movement ceased and found himself staring at a gabled ceiling. A soft sound of a door closing and feet moving on the floor drew his attention to the other side of the room. He suppressed a groan.

Mai stood, leaning against the closed door in a pose that could be considered sultry in other circumstances. As it was, however, Bodie just realised things had truly gone from bad to worse.

# # # # # # #

Doyle bided his time as he was chained to the sturdy radiator. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he kicked out at Miller, sweeping the man's legs from underneath him. Miller sprawled in an undignified heap, but he was too far away for Doyle to follow up on his attack.

He picked himself up and dusted himself off primly, glaring at Doyle. "You've far too much life in you," he said through gritted teeth, landing a savage kick to Doyle's lower back. Doyle writhed in agony as Miller fought with the gag, removing it roughly. Doyle dragged in deep breaths, his teeth gritted as he waited for the pain to abate.

"What about Magpie?" he hissed as soon as he was able.

Miller glared down at him. "I rather think you should be more concerned about your own fate," he said archly.

"Don't be a complete bastard," Doyle snapped. "She didn't kill you when she had the chance."

Miller smiled coldly. "Leaving people alive is not considered part of an assassin's job description," he replied.

"I thought there was honour amongst thieves," Doyle snarled.

Miller bared his teeth in a humourless grin. "Among thieves, perhaps. But assassins are an entirely different species."

He crouched down, mindful of Doyle's legs, and grabbed a handful of Doyle's hair. "Magpie is no longer your concern," he hissed. He released him roughly and stood up. "And no longer mine either," he added.

Doyle looked up sharply, catching the subtle note of regret in Miller's voice.

"Adams is going to kill her," Doyle said.

Miller did not flinch. "Eventually," he agreed.

# # # # # # #

Maggie could only hear the hammering of her heart. She knew what games Adams was playing; knew he was using the anticipation to add to her torment. She tugged at the chains experimentally, as though they could have changed since the last time she had tried. There was enough slack for her to move a little, maybe six inches – but not enough for her to fight back. Not enough to allow her to do more than thrash and squirm. She knew that was deliberate.

She tried to regulate her heartbeat, taking slow, deep breaths. She was well trained; she knew exactly what she could do.

The problem was she knew exactly how little that was.

Cowley would realise where she was. She had checked out two other houses prior to this one, and contacted him after each to eliminate them. He would know where she was. Eventually, he would send in a team; he would use the opportunity to trap Adams in his lair. Eventually.

She twisted again, experimenting with reach and considering potential points of attack. She concentrated on her surroundings, and blocked the memories of her face pushed into coarse, dusty carpet; of rough hands tearing her clothes and her body. She even remembered the pain in her throat as she had screamed and sobbed herself hoarse.

The memories were there, but she didn't have to let them control her. They did not define her. One horrible night of her life did not have to dictate the rest of it. She wouldn't allow it. Macklin wouldn't allow it. True – if it had never happened, if her father had never been murdered, her life would have been very different. But she wasn't going to waste time on possibilities or regrets. She decided her destiny; no-one else.

The cellar door swung open, and she heard deliberate, measured footsteps come down the stairs. Her heart rate suddenly slowed, her breathing calm and regular.

Adams stared down at her, his eyes glittering.

# # # # # # #

There were, thought Bodie, plenty of men who would pay good money for this. Himself included, in his wilder moods. But Mai only cared for her own satisfaction, and the blows she landed across his chest and stomach were far too heavy to be pleasurable.

The sharp strap landing beneath his rib cage made breathing difficult for a few seconds. Bodie's arms felt like they were on fire. He had stopped feeling his hands a long time before.

The scarf pushed into his mouth may have been silk, but the water poured onto it was cold, and the feeling of drowning and suffocation made his heart and head pound violently. He thrashed on the bed, pulling at his restraints. His instincts were to fight, despite the futility of his position

She hadn't asked him a question, hadn't even spoke to him yet. Bodie knew she was just getting warmed up.

# # # # # # #

Murphy crept closer to the house, his black combat clothing doing a good job at disguising his approach. There did not appear to be any guards. Adams was over-confident, perhaps. And unaware of any danger.

It was a large mansion house. He scanned the windows, transferring what he could see to the blue prints he had committed to memory. It seemed likely that Cowley's intelligence had been correct – the security was light. He saw only one shadow move inside.

Cowley was calling in all available units, and a few favours. They had to move on Adams now, before he had chance to regroup and cover his tracks. They had maybe two hours before the back-up arrived. But a lot could happen in two hours. Bodie and Doyle could be dead in two minutes.

Murphy didn't hear Macklin approach until the tall, black-clad man whispered beside him. "Well?"

"One guard this side," Murphy reported.

"Two the other. Neither of them the four from the idents," Macklin said.

"Inside then," Murphy ventured. "Have to take out the guards first."

Macklin nodded. "Quietly. As soon as they get a whiff of attack, they'll kill anyone inside."

If they're not dead already – Murphy wisely left the thought unsaid. While Macklin was professionalism personified, and had lost none of his Special Forces trained reflexes, Murphy wasn't sure what would happen if they found Magpie dead. He had his suspicions about the nature of the relationship between Macklin and Maggie, although it was obviously a very private one. Macklin may be playing it very cool now, far cooler than Murphy would think possible for a man who might find his lover dead soon; but somehow he didn't think that was any indication of the depth of Macklin's feelings. And if Maggie was dead, Macklin was a deadly man to upset. Murphy didn't fancy the chances of anyone Macklin decided to hold responsible.

Murphy and Macklin ducked into the undergrowth as a guard appeared from the rear of the property. Macklin indicated with eyes and hands that it was one of the two he'd found at the rear. The door facing them opened, a side entrance, far less ornate than the huge double doors that graced the front of the property. The shadow Murphy had watched moving inside the property turned into a tall dark-haired man, clad in a grey suit. The bulge of his gun was cleverly hidden by the expensive jacket, but the practiced eyes of Murphy and Macklin spotted the weapon immediately.

They watched as the two guards met, sharing a greeting and a cigarette. They squatted unmoving in the dense undergrowth, invisible to any casual observer, as the two guards chatted and smoked.

"Take him out, head for the roof," Macklin whispered. "I'll take the rear, get rid of the two, and get in via the cellar. Then we'll sweep top to bottom, meet in the middle."

Murphy scanned the external layout and nodded briefly. Without a sound, Macklin crept back the way he had come through the undergrowth.

The two guards extinguished their cigarettes almost simultaneously and went back to their posts. Murphy glided through the cover to his target.

# # # # # # #

Maggie pulled uselessly at the chains holding her, a primitive growl sounding low in her throat. Adams positioned himself between her outspread legs, giving every indication of enjoying her rage. He reached down, grasping her throat in one hand and pushing her head against the mattress, feeling the vibration of her complaint in the pale column in his hand. Maggie's eyes rolled in her head, her cheek pressed hard into the mattress, as she watched him, fury burning bright in her gaze. He knew exactly where to position himself so he was just outside the range of her hands. She twisted in his grasp, ignoring the throttling hold on her, forcing him to one side slightly to maintain the pressure without leaning too hard on her fragile windpipe and inducing unconsciousness. Without realising it, her subtle movement brought him closer to her right hand, and he suddenly found his hair grasped tightly. She yanked hard, pulling him off balance. He reached around with his other hand to try and loosen her grasp. It shifted his position and she twisted her hip violently, slamming her hip bone into his groin.

He screamed in pain and anger, throwing himself off her immediately. He glared down at her before delivering a vicious kick to her side, causing her to roll over to one side as much as she was able, trying to absorb the pain. Anger taking over, he threw himself on top of her, pinning her legs beneath him, stopping her from throwing him off. He kept his hands on either side of her head, pushing himself into her, grinding his erection into her meaningfully. She ignored the threat, and pulled down on the chains, pulling herself up to crack her forehead hard against his face. She barely missed his nose as he flinched back instinctively, the blow falling on his cheekbone and making him cry out. The pain distracted him and he was less cautious about his position, bringing his throat near her face as he tried to shake the stars the impact brought to his vision. Before he could manage it, she bit him hard on the side of his neck, not loosening her grip even when his blood started to run down her chin.

He roared in pain and punched her hard in the stomach, making her let go immediately as she gasped in pain. He rolled off her again, his hand to the steady trickle of blood from the bite on his neck.

She glared at him, violet eyes burning with anger in her pale face. He watched her cautiously, evaluating her. The one thing he couldn't see in those expressive eyes was any trace of fear.

# # # # # # #

Macklin glided like a ghost around the perimeter. The guard who had enjoyed a cigarette was completely unaware he had a new shadow as he waved a greeting to his companion at the rear of the property. When the two guards were no longer in each other's line of sight, Macklin made his move, approaching his target silently. The first the man knew of the attack was when a strong arm snaked around his throat, another hand firmly over his mouth. The next thing he saw was blackness.

Macklin lowered the body to the floor without a sound, carefully rolling it against the wall of the building, making sure it would be hidden from any casual observer. He crouched against the wall, and waited for the other guard to investigate.

# # # #

Murphy clung to the lengthening shadows as he approached the house. The guard had no idea he was there until the hand clamped over his mouth. The knife glided through the fine material of the suit to slide between his vertebrae. He fell noiselessly to the ground. Murphy edged around the building, senses alert to every shadow and whisper of sound. To the side of the house, he found a single storey tack room. He followed the line of the building, planning his route, and remembering the layout from the plans they had perused in Cowley's office. He gave a wolfish smile, sliding his blade back inside its sheath as he reached up to climb on top of the out building. Sure-footed on the slates, he cast a wary glance around him before he made for the corner of the out building, footfalls silent on the roof. He used the bricks in their pattern, the edges sticking out to form a dove tail effect, to haul himself to the next floor. From there, he could creep along the wall, taking quick but efficient looks into each room, before he reached the corner where larger bricks protruded from the walls to make a further pattern in the brick work. He shimmied expertly up the wall, strong fingers finding each nook and cranny, holding his weight on seemingly impossible small areas. He reached the sash window on the top floor, carefully looking inside to check the room. Satisfied it was empty, he drew his blade again, sliding the thin metal between the two windows and flicking the catch on the inside of the sash. Bracing himself firmly on the thinnest of ledges, he slowly and carefully slid the lower sash window upwards. When it was open enough, he pulled himself inside smoothly, long legs disappearing from view.

# # # #

The guard appeared at the side entrance, looking for his missing colleague. As soon as his back was turned, Macklin appeared behind him, thin wire snaking around the man's throat. His windpipe crushed beneath the pressure, taking him down silently and efficiently. Macklin lay the body on the ground, checking for any signs of life.

Satisfied his target was no more, Macklin turned his attention to the interior of the house. A quick glimpse inside was all he managed before an approaching shadow made him crouch back against the wall.

He had killed two men in cold blood. He acknowledged the fact with stark pragmatism. There would be a price, and he would pay it willingly, in shakes and sweats throughout terror filled nightmares. But not now. Now, he had to find Maggie. The fiddler could wait.

He followed the line of the building around to the lower levels, the entrance to the cellar beneath the ground floor. Carefully scanning his surroundings, certain of his seclusion, he drew out his lock picks and started to work on the door.

# # # #

Murphy entered the attic room without a sound. The room was dusty, trunks and boxes scattered haphazardly in the corners of the room. The dust on the floor showed that no-one had been in the room for some time. Mindful of loose floorboards, Murphy made his way to the door. A quick glance revealed a deserted hallway with two more doors leading off the corridor, with a flight of stairs descending halfway along. Murphy approached the closest door, listening carefully before opening the door quickly, revealing another room similar to the one he had first entered. He approached the final door. As he neared, he heard sounds of movement from within, the unmistakable noise of a beating.

Bingo.

His customised Colt .45 automatic was a reassuring weight in one hand as he opened the door. He took in the wide-eyed surprise of Bodie, lying gagged and bound on the bed, his face and hair dripping with water. Murphy did not allow himself time to grin in triumph, turning to the other figure in the room.

Mai half-crouched, her face contorted as she gave an eerie, unearthly hiss. She still held the leather belt in one hand that she'd been using to beat Bodie. Murphy hesitated, not spotting any weapon, until he saw the unmistakable gleam of a blade as she reached behind her, and he pulled the trigger, two bullets slamming into the woman, one into her chest, the other straight between her eyes. The force of the impact threw her into the corner of the room, where she lay like a rag doll, blood slowly seeping from her forehead.

Murphy did not spare her a second look, turning straight to Bodie as he holstered his Colt temporarily. He pulled the sodden rag from Bodie's mouth, taking in the bruising staining the pale face and the blood marking his clothes.

"You took your time," Bodie croaked. He hissed in pain as Murphy undid the handcuffs. Bodie tried to massage some feeling into his complaining hands while Murphy dealt with the leg irons.

"Well, you know how it is – 'phone calls to make, dinner to finish. Can't drop everything every time you pair get up to your ears in it," Murphy replied with a half-smile.

Bodie nodded to the dead Mai. "Not subtle."

Murphy followed his gaze. "You'd rather I'd hesitated?"

Bodie gave him a dark look. "Not really."

Murphy handed him his backup gun, a blued PPK. "Ready to join the party?"

Bodie grinned. "Lead, monster, we'll follow," he intoned solemnly.

# # # #

Miller pulled back viciously on Doyle's hair, raising the already battered and bruised face for another hard slap. His head jerked upwards, staying his hand as he recognised the muffled but unmistakable bark of two gun shots. He looked back down to Doyle, seeing the flare of recognition in the half closed green eyes.

He snarled, pushing Doyle away and kicking him once more. Miller turned his back on him, stalking to the door and flinging it open. He hesitated, listening for more sounds. Two guards appeared on the stairs, looking around warily.

"You – upstairs," Miller barked. The two men nodded, drawing their weapons and sliding cautiously up the stairs. As one edged around towards the attic rooms, a gun shot rang out, a bullet embedding itself in the plaster next to the guard's head as he ducked out of the way just in time.

"Shit," Miller hissed. His lips tightened to a thin line as he considered his options. He flung a poisonous glance back into the room at Doyle, before leaving him, determined to salvage something out of the situation.

He left the men to deal with the intruders and went to find Adams. He had a fairly good idea where he would find him. He headed for the back stairs.

# # # #

Macklin worked the lock carefully, the old and heavy barrels resistant to the delicate picks. Several times he had to withdraw the fine wire to bend them back into shape and reinsert them to gently feel for the elements. He worked calmly and methodically, there being no quick way to pick a lock this old and rusted. Any impatience was buried deep.

A piercing scream came from behind the door. A woman's voice. Macklin felt the blood in his veins turn to ice.

# # # #

Adams snarled angrily, bleeding from the lip where she had head-butted and connected, ripping his mouth against his teeth. Blood stained the collar of his shirt from the deep bite in his neck, still oozing slowly.

Maggie glared at him, blood from her own cut lip mingling with the blood she'd drawn from him as she'd bit and clawed at him.

Adams kicked her in the side, and she curled instinctively. He capitalised on the movement, forcing his foot into her back and turning her half on her side. She tried to squirm back, but he used his greater strength and weight to twist her until her face was half buried in the stinking mattress, her arm stretched painfully behind her. With growing panic, she felt him fumbling at his trousers with one hand, the other hand pressed firmly between her shoulder blades, all of his weight bearing down on her.

She felt his hand curl around the top of her jeans, felt him prepare to rip the cotton from her hips. She had nothing left, no more moves to make. She was fourteen years old again, with her face pushed cruelly into harsh fabric, making it difficult to breath, while an unbearable weight held her down.

She drew in a breath despite the weight on her, and screamed, feeling the power of it tear and rip at her throat. She screamed the terror of a child, the fury of a woman.

Suddenly, the weight lifted, the tension pushing her into the mattress disappeared. She turned onto her back again, eyes wild.

Miller restrained Adams, who stood breathing heavily, erection clearly seen through the half opened trousers. Adams snarled angrily, lashing out at Miller, who avoided the blow easily, pushing Adams away from her. Miller's words slowly drowned out the banging of her heart.

"Intruders," he said. "Get out of here now!" He snapped the command at Adams, forcing his attention from his intentions of rape, trying to pull his self-preservation to the fore.

Adams gave an incoherent snarl of rage, fastening his trousers roughly, before turning from Magpie and taking the steps two at a time.

"Kill her," he commanded as he left the cellar.

Miller turned back to her, reaching inside his jacket for his Browning. Maggie's eyes followed the weapon as he drew it slowly half-way from the holster. Satisfied he had her attention, he gave a slow smile, replacing the gun smoothly.

"Consider us even, Magpie," he said softly, before leaving the cellar.

She gave a deep, ragged breath, feeling the adrenalin surging through her blood, making her twitch and feel sick. The sudden bang from the cellar door made her start again.

When she saw the man who appeared through the lower cellar door, she thought she must be dreaming.

"Mack?" Her voice was broken, hoarse; barely recognisable.

He stood, staring down at her, his expression shifting through various emotions. He breathed heavily, unable to speak.

A gun-shot sounded, forcing his attention from her to the door at the top of the steps. She saw his conflicting desires as he looked back to her, not knowing whether to release her or to continue upwards to secure the house.

"Go on," she said gently, a soft smile playing on her lips. She was safe now. With Macklin here, she knew nothing could hurt her. "I'll still be here when you've finished."

He smiled in relief that she could still try to be funny despite the situation. "I love you," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion, before he ran up the stairs leaving her behind.

# # # #

Doyle pulled ineffectually against the handcuffs holding him to the radiator. He could hear the scuffling of the men outside, along with the bark of gunfire. One sharp retort was followed by a heavy thud. Doyle couldn't tell whether the loss was from the attackers or defenders. He fretted, impotence fuelling his anger. Another shot rang out, a loud, deep sound that he recognised as a .45. It was followed by another thud. Doyle jumped as a bang sounded outside the door. An arm slumped across the floor, hand unmoving. From the look of the jacket sleeve, it was one of Adams' goons.

"In here!" he shouted. Rapid footsteps thundered down the stairs. Doyle heard movement outside and knew it was the sound of men making sure the area was secure.

Bodie stepped across the doorway, pale, battered, and bruised. He checked the body on the floor casually, before turning his attention to Doyle.

Doyle pulled at his cuffs. "Come on, Bodie."

Bodie grinned. "Hey, Murph. Look what I've found."

Murphy looked around the door quickly, giving a wide smile at the sight of Doyle. He handed the keys to Bodie before ducking back out to keep a check on the hallway.

Bodie undid the hand cuffs, his grip awkward with the two broken fingers of his left hand. Doyle winced as he massaged his wrists with difficulty, having the same injury. Bodie helped him to his feet, both men painfully aware of the hours they had spent imprisoned and beaten.

Murphy appeared at the doorway again. "Okay?"

Bodie gave Doyle an enquiring look and Doyle shrugged. "If it gets me out of here, mate, I'd dance a bloody jig."

Murphy grinned. "Right. Well, Macklin should be sweeping downstairs and making his way up."

"Hang on." Bodie took a step towards Murphy, a frown creasing his features. "I thought you said Macklin?"

Murphy nodded, his blue eyes clear. "I did."

Bodie and Doyle exchanged surprised looks, then Doyle's expression darkened.

"Maggie."

Bodie face hardened. He turned back to Murphy. "Adams is going to rape her," he said quickly.

"Which means Macklin is going to kill him," Murphy said. He gave Bodie and Doyle a calculating look, assessing their injuries. Adrenalin would get them through the next few minutes, but Murphy knew they were both on borrowed time. He gave a curt nod. "Come on. Let's get it over with."

# # # #

Macklin moved through the downstairs rooms quickly and efficiently. He knew there was at least one other guard somewhere, the one he had seen when finishing off the two men before he'd made for the cellar. The gunfire from upstairs had ended, and he knew he had to make sure the floor was clear before moving upstairs.

Instinct moved him before he'd consciously realised that the shadow to his left belonged to an armed man. He rolled across the floor, diving for cover behind a heavy sideboard.

Jefferson aimed carefully with his Smith and Wesson, squeezing off a shot that connected with the wood panelling beside Macklin's head. Splinters showered him. He caught sight of Jefferson's ankles through the gap at the bottom of the sideboard, and Macklin shot quickly and efficiently, taking him out from the feet. The two bullets disintegrated Jefferson's ankles and he fell to the floor with an unearthly high-pitched wail. Macklin rose from behind the sideboard and aimed his Colt Python unerringly at the man. Jefferson's face was contorted in agony as he tried to raise his gun to fire back. Macklin looked him straight in the eyes as he fired.

# # # #

Maggie's imagination went into over-drive at the noises she heard through the open cellar door. Gunshots approached. She tried to follow the sounds, trying to work out which guns she heard, but the sounds were too muffled by distance. She cursed fretfully, imagining any number of scenarios unfolding above her head, while she lay helpless.

She heard a door slam and footsteps approach. She stared at the steps in anticipation, eager to see Macklin return. She couldn't quite make out the figure in the doorway at first, the bright light turning them to a silhouette. But as he stepped forward and moved down the stairs, she felt her breath catch in her throat and the sweat freeze on her skin.

Adams grinned coldly at her, a Beretta in one hand. In the other, he swung the keys to her chains.

# # # #

"Clear?" Doyle's voice echoed down the main staircase. Macklin did one final sweep before calling back.

"Clear." He padded to the foot of the stairs to meet Bodie and Doyle limping towards him. He took in their dishevelled state of near collapse. "Where's Murphy?"

"Back stairs," Bodie said, breathing heavily with the effort of keeping the pain under control.

"Adams and Dubcek?" Macklin asked.

Doyle shook his head. "Not seen them."

"Fuck." Macklin swore sharply under his breath.

The muffled sound of a large calibre hand gun echoed through the house. The three men crouched, instinctively seeking cover. Macklin looked towards the back of the house where the back stairs would exit.

"You armed?" he asked the two men. Bodie hefted the PPK in reply, but Doyle shook his head. Macklin pulled a snub nosed .357 from his back pocket, hefting it towards Doyle who caught it a little awkwardly in his still painful hands.

They started at the sound of a door slamming shut. Without waiting, knowing exactly how the two men behind him would move in a gun fight, Macklin jogged in a slight crouch to the back of the house, his Colt Python hanging ready in his hands. Pain temporarily forgotten, Bodie and Doyle fell in behind him.

The door of the back stairs opened, and Dubcek/Miller suddenly appeared, framed in the doorway, his attention fixed on the stairs above him.

"Dubcek." Macklin called out a warning. Miller turned in surprise at the sound, instinctively raising his weapon. Macklin rolled, the bullet burying itself in the wall where his head had been. But before Macklin could return fire, two loud bangs echoed through the house.

Miller stared down in disbelief at the expanding stain of red that spread across his chest. His mouth opened and closed without sound, his lips suddenly bloodless in his pale face. He fell to his knees, his gun falling from his unfeeling hand.

Murphy appeared in the doorway behind him, his Colt held high. Miller looked up at him, before his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell to the ground dead.

Macklin ignored the dead body, stepping towards Murphy. "Adams?" he demanded.

Murphy shook his head.

Macklin's face hardened. "Call it in," he ordered.

Murphy reached for his radio. "6-2 to Control."

Macklin cast his gaze over Bodie and Doyle. "Are you two going to collapse any time soon?"

"As soon as you give us permission," Bodie said.

Macklin's face twitched into a brief smile as Murphy's radio crackled a response.

"Control, 6-2. Give status."

"Two walking wounded. Six not. All theirs."

"Understood. Emergency units will be there in 30. Cowley out."

Doyle leaned against the wall for support as he felt hours of discomfort start to take their toll. "Have you found Maggie?" he asked.

The stare Macklin fixed on him was hard and searching. "She's in the cellar," he replied.

"Where will Adams get to?" Murphy asked.

Bodie gave a half hearted shrug, too tired and in too much pain to manage more. His answer was silenced by the shout that came from the cellar.

Macklin moved before he had finished whispering her name. Murphy slid behind him to support as they approached the cellar door. Bodie and Doyle limped behind, knowing they were becoming a liability.

# # # #

Adams threw the key at her, the Beretta unwavering in his other hand. "Now I know you've got enough mobility to open those locks," he said coldly.

Fixing him with a baleful look, she started to undo the chains and locks holding her while Adams held the gun on her. When she was unlocked, she sat on the mattress eyeing him cautiously.

Gunshots echoed from upstairs, and then there was sudden silence. Adams gave nothing away.

"Up," he ordered. "Hands on your head and turn around." She obeyed slowly, carefully setting her hands on her head, her shoulders and arms complaining at the movement. Adams grabbed her, thrusting her arms down and wrapping one arm around her neck. He pulled her in front of him, and she felt the cold barrel of the automatic against her forehead.

"Now, don't make me regret not killing you earlier," he whispered. He started to push her towards the door to the outside, but she dug her heels in hard.

"No!" she yelled, pushing back against him.

"Adams!" Macklin's voice came from the cellar steps.

Adams held her in front of him like a shield, eyeing Macklin cautiously as he came slowly down the stairs. He saw Murphy follow him like a shadow. Both men held their guns unerringly on him.

Adams gave a desperate smile. "Now, you're not going to be responsible for her getting a bullet in her brain, are you?" he said breathlessly.

Macklin gave nothing away, not the beating of his heart, or the cold sweat trickling down his spine as he saw Maggie squirming ineffectually in Adams' grasp. Three men dead, by his hand, and each one more difficult than the last. His Colt Python did not sway in the slightest, but he could feel the tension thrumming through his veins. He would not come this far to fail at the final hurdle, not when the price was so high.

Maggie's gaze never wavered from Macklin, watching him for any indication of his next move. She was hypersensitive to the tension in Adams as he stood plastered against her back. She could feel the fine tremors running through his body against her, and the arm snaked uncomfortably tight around her throat. She felt the movement of his shoulder before he made his move.

Before he could point the gun at Macklin, Maggie brought her hand down hard against his. The small key she had kept in her hand from undoing the chains went straight through his hand near his wrist. He howled and dropped the gun, even as Macklin's revolver fired, the bullet creasing Adams' scalp as he flinched from her blow, before thudding into the wall behind them.

Maggie stared at Macklin. If she hadn't stabbed Adams, the bullet would have gone straight between Adams' eyes.

Murphy moved quickly past Macklin, taking Adams roughly by the shoulder and throwing him against the wall.

Macklin stepped slowly towards her. When he finally stood in front of her, he reached out and tilted her face up towards him. He looked down into her eyes, his expression unreadable. His gaze roamed over her, taking stock of cuts, bruises – even the way she held herself indicating other injuries he couldn't yet see.

Finally, his gaze flicked over to Adams. He took in the split lip, torn and bleeding ear, and the clear teeth marks in his neck. Macklin's steel-blue eyes turned cold. He looked back at Maggie.

"Did you do that?" he asked, his voice deceptively gentle. He jerked his head towards Adams, who stood glaring angrily as Murphy patted him down thoroughly.

She looked at the blond haired man, and Macklin saw something in the depths of her eyes he'd never thought he'd see again.

She didn't need to speak. Macklin knew exactly what would have caused those injuries, knew exactly what situation she would have been in to be forced into inflicting them. And worse still, he recognised the shadow haunting the back of her eyes.

He moved like lightning, breaking Adam's nose with one swift palm flat against the man's face. Adams didn't have time to cry out before Macklin's fist slammed into his stomach. As he doubled over, Macklin brought his arm crashing down on the back of Adams' head. He was unconscious before he hit the floor with a sickening thud.

Macklin stared down at him, breathing steadily. The only outward sign of his rage was the twitch in the iron jaw. He felt Maggie's hand on his arm, and his expression softened immediately as he turned back to her. He couldn't hide the relief in his steel-blue eyes.

He instinctively opened his arms, wanting to feel her, warm and safe against him. Her hesitation made his breath catch, pain flashing in his eyes, afraid she would withdraw that much even from him.

Dark blue eyes tinged with violet regarded him. "You're married," she said, her voice quiet and accusing. Adams was temporarily forgotten it seemed. He felt absurdly relieved.

"I was," he replied.

He saw a twitch as she heard the past tense.

"She's pregnant," she said, in the same flat tone.

He resisted the temptation to smile. "Not mine," he replied.

"Are you sure?" She said the words before she could stop herself, instantly regretting the harsh, cruel question and the flinch it caused him.

He saw the guilt in her eyes and the silent plea for forgiveness, and stifled his angry response. It was only to be expected, he thought.

"I'm certain," he replied, treating her accusation as though it were just another question, instead of the prelude to an argument.

He ached to hold her, but held back, waiting until she was ready. She held herself stiffly, and he knew without needing to be told there were bruised ribs and a sore back amongst her complaints.

She looked up at him, the beginning of a smile on her cut lips. The violet eyes sparkled, and he felt the tight vice around his heart loosen its terrible grip.

"I'm an idiot, aren't I?" she said quietly.

He reached out to gently stroke grime and blood from her cheek. She was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He smiled fondly.

"Yes," he agreed softly. "But you're _my_ idiot."

The sounds of approaching sirens echoed down the stairs. Macklin was aware of movement upstairs, the sound of many feet entering the house and beginning the clear up operation.

He took her in his arms, aware of her bruises, and held her gently. She turned her head to nuzzle into his chest for comfort, and the reassurance of his solid body against hers. He felt her sigh contentedly, her arms sliding around his waist. Holding her, warm and safe in his arms, calmed him like nothing else could.

"Besides," he said, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath her ear, "I expect it's your turn."

He pressed his lips to the top of her head, ignoring the dirt and grime in her hair. He would exorcise whatever demons Adams had stirred within her. He had done it before.

"Macklin?" Murphy's voice behind him called him back to their situation. He turned, unwilling to release her despite the witness to their relationship.

Murphy stood over the unconscious Adams, who was now wearing Murphy's handcuffs. Macklin took in the calm, bland expression on the handsome agent's face, and knew without a doubt that David Murphy had heard everything. And that he was pretending none of it had happened. Macklin nodded his gratitude.

Doyle appeared in the doorway. "Cavalry's here," he said, expression carefully neutral at the sight of Maggie cradled gently in Macklin's arms. Macklin stared back defiantly.

"On our way." The clipped, Sandhurst tones gave nothing away. The strong hands, gently holding her, unwilling to break contact, told a different story.

He led her from the cellar, out through the side door. A convoy of cars lined the drive, an ambulance among them. Sirens and flashing lights made her blink in confusion. Macklin steadied her.

"Do you need a medic?" he asked, concern in his eyes.

She looked around, taking in the ambulance crew busy with Bodie and Doyle, grey blankets over their shoulders. Neither of them noticed her. Three bodies lay on the ground, coats pulled over their heads, ready for the body bags, and Maggie knew one of them was Dubcek. She wanted to ask Macklin how he felt, how he had managed all this. But the words died in her throat.

Three bodies. All for her.

She turned back to Macklin, a smile of relief on her face. "Take me home, Mack," she said softly. "That's all I want."

# # # #

Cowley watched as Macklin led Maggie to a nearby car, negotiating with the agent for a lift to his own vehicle parked nearby. Macklin's attention centred solely on the woman by his side, for which Cowley was grateful. There would be a reckoning, he knew.

Murphy led Adams towards the ambulance crew, pushing the man ahead of him none-too-gently. Adams stumbled, his handcuffed hands in front of him. Cowley could see blood streaming down the man's face from his nose, staining the white shirt.

When Adams saw the dour Scot, he made his way unsteadily towards him. Murphy caught hold of him, stopping him. Adams tried to shake the tall man off, but Murphy was not to be denied. Cowley walked over to them, his craggy features impassive. He noted Adams' very broken nose, swelling already puffing his eyes.

"That man tried to kill me," he said, his voice thick with blood. Cowley looked to where he gestured, to the broad shouldered figure of Macklin.

"That man?" Cowley asked, his eyebrows raised in polite enquiry. Adams tried to nod, wincing in pain at the movement. Cowley gave a tight smile, detailing the man's injuries and the likely source of them. "No, Mr. Adams." Cowley's voice was at his most icily correct and polite. "He didn't try to kill you," he promised him. "If that man had tried to kill you, Mr. Adams, I can assure you – you would be dead."

Murphy gave a satisfied smirk, pushing the man towards the ambulance again, ignoring his gasp of complaint. Cowley didn't have the heart to berate him for it.

# # # #

Bodie sat on the stretcher, too tired to argue as the medics cleaned him up, injecting him with antibiotics and pain killers, and checking his bruised ribs. Nothing required stitches. Miller had been methodical, but precise. He'd obviously had every intention of keeping his prisoners alive for as long as possible. Bodie knew he should feel absurdly grateful for that, but found he couldn't quite bring himself to.

Doyle eyed him from the opposite cot, surrendering to similar ministrations and medication.

"My place or yours," Doyle said at last, watching the paramedic bandage his broken fingers.

"I prefer the takeaway 'round the corner from yours," Bodie admitted.

Doyle gave a nod of agreement. "Sounds good to me. You're buying."

Bodie gave a snort of laughter. "How did you work that one out?"

"I called it first."

Bodie was too tired to argue, but too stubborn to concede defeat. "My shout, your drink."

Doyle smiled, his chipped tooth glinting in the flashing emergency lights. He knew that the only drink he had in his flat would be tea. Bodie was obviously too tired to be specific. "Agreed," he said with a show of reluctance.

Bodie grinned triumphantly, before hissing in pain as the paramedic pressed a bruised rib.

# # # #

Cowley watched the clean up operation with a professional eye. Murphy came back to him.

"What have you got?" he asked.

Murphy paused, hands on hips as he gave his report. "Adams had a list of all the people involved in his operations, including the undercover people. Seems he was trying to get Bodie and Doyle to identify the leaks."

Cowley hummed his acknowledgement. "And how was their cover blown?"

"One of the ministers in Adams' back pocket is a member of your club." Murphy carefully schooled his face to impassivity at the horrified surprise on Cowley's face.

"Good God," he breathed. The craggy face settled into a cynical look. "Aye, but why be surprised. The rot gets everywhere." He looked over the organised chaos in front of him. "What else have you got?"

"Books with names, and – erm – habits." Murphy affected a look of embarrassment. The notes Adams kept about the kinks and proclivities of some high ranking civil servants and members of Parliament – even the Cabinet – would make for some interesting reading.

Cowley gave a thin-lipped smile. "Then it was worth it. All worth it." He nodded approvingly at Murphy. "That's the only thing that matters, in the end."

# # # # # # #

Doyle let Bodie use the shower first, leaving him to organise food while he took his own shower. He let the water wash away the dirt and grime of the cellar, allowed it to soak through his battered and sore body, relieving tension and taut muscles. Despite the discomfort in his broken fingers, he washed his hair thoroughly, luxuriating in the silky sensations of the lather as it eased away the pain. Reluctantly, he turned off the shower and reached for the towel, his chest hair fluffing as he rubbed as vigorously as he dared, cataloguing the patches of dark purple bruises marring the honey tanned flesh. Finally satisfied, and aching far less than he had been, he left the bathroom, jogging pants hanging loosely from his lean hips.

The sight that met him in his lounge made him pause in the doorway, a wide grin across his face.

Bodie lay on the sofa, wrapped in a spare dressing gown. A plate balanced precariously on his chest, rising and falling with steady, reassuring breathing. Doyle stood and drank in the sight, taking comfort in the peace and quiet. Dark eyelashes fanned across pale cheeks. Bodie pouted slightly in his sleep, looking for all the world like a saintly altar boy.

An altar boy with some decidedly unholy tastes, Doyle reflected with a grin.

Silently, on bare feet, he padded over to Bodie, removing the almost empty plate and settling it on the coffee table. He reached for the blanket, already laid out on the nearby armchair in readiness, and laid it gently over the sleeping figure. Bodie did not wake, instinctively knowing he was safe, that Doyle was near.

Doyle smiled down at the relaxed and vulnerable man, wondering at the trust implicit in such innocent sleep. He took his own food to bed with him, not wanting to disturb his partner.

# # # # # # #

Macklin drove through the night, the figure beside him sleeping fitfully. She moaned in her sleep, muttering incoherently and twitching. He kept a watch over her, his concentration on his driving, but always aware of her every moan and flinch. Her face contorted in anguish as she dreamed, and he felt a pang of reflected pain at her suffering. At one point, she sat bolt upright, a wordless cry breaking from her lips, and he reached across towards her, his hand a warm, reassuring weight on her arm. He felt her initial flinch at his touch, but did not withdraw, waiting until she recognised him. He risked a look in her direction, seeing her blink in confusion, the terror receding as she took in his proximity. He felt a warm rush of protectiveness, grateful he could still give her relief from her nightmares.

When they reached their home in the Lake District, he drew up to the front door of the red brick Victorian house, not bothering to garage the Land Rover just yet. She started at the sound of his driver's door closing, but he reached the passenger door before she could react, holding it open for her and reaching to pick her up in his strong arms, cradling her against him as he pushed the door shut behind them with his hip. He managed to open the front door with some minor juggling, and carried her through. He looked down at her when he heard her laugh softly.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"You," she answered, laughing despite her pale face and sleep-bruised eyes. "Carrying me over the threshold."

He smiled wryly, shutting the front door behind him, locking the world away from them both. He breathed a sigh of relief. They were home. They were together. Everything was right in the world again.

He carried her upstairs to their bedroom, setting her on her feet gently, making sure she was steady before he started to strip her with cool, business-like detachment. In silence, he catalogued every scratch and bruise, before stripping himself quickly and efficiently, and guiding her into the bathroom. He turned the faucets of the large double shower to as hot as was comfortable, before positioning her under the jets and gently washing away all the grime and memories. She relaxed in to his touch, eyes closed as he washed her hair, his fingers trailing through the raven-black tresses, gently coaxing the hair smooth and clean again.

Bone-aching weariness made her numb, barely able to stand as Macklin cared for her. Slowly, the warm water washed away the coldness of the cellar. The dull throb of tension in her body eased at his gentle touch. The simple closeness of him, his scent surrounding her, soothed her more than anything else. It was Macklin; he was close - keeping her safe like no-one else ever had or ever could.

When he was satisfied he had washed away all traces of Adams and the cellar, he turned off the shower and reached for one of the large fluffy towels kept close to hand, wrapping it around her. He dried himself quickly with the other towel, before reaching to pat her dry, careful of every mark on her pale skin. She stood, swaying gently, content to feel his warmth and protection around her.

He stood her in front of the large mirror as he ran a comb through her damp hair, teasing her hair smooth with patient fingers. He looked over her shoulder and saw her reflection watching him.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she admitted. "I think that was the worst thing of all."

He stroked her damp hair gently, the comb no longer required. His eyes never left hers. "You don't get rid of me that easily," he replied, his voice firm.

"Promise?"

He reached around her, his touch soft as silk, all his power and strength contained to surround her with all the protection he could give. He rested his cheek against her damp hair, staring straight into her dark blue eyes through the reflection in the mirror.

"I swear," he said solemnly. Her arms reached up to cover his, holding him holding her.

"You can't marry me," she said softly.

Can't marry a dead woman, with a death certificate. Not in her real name. And he knew without her having to say that she would never consider a marriage in any of her false names as a genuine union.

"Don't need to," he said instead.

"I can't give you children," she said, her voice acquiring a brittle edge as she tried to hide the pain the admission caused her.

He sighed and pressed his lips to her damp head. "Maggie, if you wanted it, and if you could, I'd gladly give you a whole brood of children," he said. "But you can't." He felt her flinch at the brutal honesty of his words, but he held her closer. "But as all I want is you, I really don't mind. Wedding ring or not, children or not – I love you. Nothing changes that."

She saw the calm determination in his eyes, the overwhelming honesty, and felt all her fears melt away.

"He tried to rape me," she said, confident enough now to voice the fear that had plagued her throughout her restless sleep as he had driven home.

"I know," he said as calmly as he could, remembering the rage he'd felt when he'd seen the ghost of old nightmares in her eyes. "You stopped him."

"Dubcek stopped him," she corrected him. "I only marked him a bit."

"Still. He didn't do it."

"No," she said. Her violet-blue eyes watched him carefully in the mirror. "But what if he had?"

Macklin did not flinch. "I'd have killed him," he promised her faithfully. He saw the need in her eyes. "I'd have killed him, brought you home, and nothing would have changed," he vowed solemnly. "You can't think that would change the way I feel."

"It might change the way I feel," she admitted in a whisper.

He turned her to face him, feeling their naked skin catching slightly where it was still damp. Arousal was the furthest thing from his mind as her warm skin pressed against his. He held her, his hands stroking up and down her back in a reassuring caress.

"Then I'd have to change your mind back again," he said with calm confidence.

She smiled, and his heart melted all over again. "I don't think anything could stop me loving you," she said.

His mouth glided over hers in a chaste kiss. "Good," he whispered against her lips. He felt the stirrings he could never control whenever she was near. "Now come to bed," he added with a smile.

She giggled and pressed herself closer to him, and he lost himself in her embrace, protecting her against her nightmares now and always.

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